pej  A  SLAVE  TO  DUTY 
&  OTHER  WOMEN 


f. 


x 


OCTAVE  THANET 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


cv. 


A  SLAVE  TO  DUTY 
&   OTHER  WOMEN 


A 

SLAVE  TO  DUTY 

fir 

OTHER  WOMEN 

BT 

OCTAVE    THANET  ,  <PSe«.<L 


HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  COMPANY 

CHICAGO   £r  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCXCVIII 


COPYRIGHT    1898,    BY 
HERBERT   S.    STONE   A  CO 


/7/7 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  SLAVE  TO  DUTY  -        i 

A  COLONIAL  DAME  -          55 

A  JEALOUS  WOMAN  87 

A  PROBLEM  IN  HONOR  131 

ON  THE  BLANK  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL  «•       -        -    185 


-3  QO 
_ji..oo 

LIBRARY 


A  Slave  to  Duty 


FRANK  MALLORY  was  fond  of  his 
mother-in-law.  He  was  as  delighted 
as  a  boy  when  he  could  get  away  from 
the  pressure  of  a  great  business  and  spend 
a  few  days  in  the  little  New  England  village 
where  Mrs.  Wilder  had  lived  ever  since  the 
captain's  death.  In  fact,  Mrs.  Wilder  was 
born  in  Jeffries.  She  was  born  a  Jeffries, 
one  of  the  good  old  family  from  which  the 
town  was  named ;  and  she  had  never  left  the 
town  for  any  long  interval,  except  during 
the  five  years  of  her  married  life.  She 
married  a  naval  officer,  who  made  her  very 
happy  and  left  her  with  two  little  girls  and 
his  pension. 

She  went  back  to  Jeffries,  and  somehow 
managed  to  buy  a  house  out  of  the  pension, 
and  by  taking  a  few  boarders  among  the 
boys  attending  the  famous  Jeffries  Academy. 

That  was  how  Frank  had  met  and  loved 


A   SLAVE    TO    DUTY 

Nora,  his  wife.  That  was  how  the  other 
son-in-law — but  they  never  talked  of  the 
other  son-in-law. 

After  Frank's  wonderful  prosperity  in 
business  Nora  had  prevailed  on  her  mother 
at  odd  times  to  accept  certain  stocks  and 
bonds  and  other  personal  estate,  which  had 
been  so  wisely  invested  that  Mrs.  Wilder 
was  very  comfortable,  and  quite  able,  as 
she  told  Frank,  often — oh,  quite  able  to  care 
for  Wait !  She  would  not  build  a  new  house. 
She  enlarged  and  beautified  the  old  walls, 
but  she  would  not  have  new. 

To-day,  as  Frank  leaned  back  in  the  old 
leather  chair,  he  could  see  some  of  the  same 
furniture  that  he  had  known  in  the  days 
when  he  had  courted  Nora;  and  Wait  had 
comforted  his  boyish  jealousies.  Its  presence 
did  not  embarrass  the  new  furniture,  for  it 
was  old  and  of  no  pretense,  and  rather  gave 
notice  that  its  owners  had  been  gentle-folks 
in  another  century.  Nora  herself,  hand- 
somer in  her  dark,  vivacious  beauty  than 
when  she  was  his  sweetheart,  sat  on  the 
piano-stool,  throwing  her  words  and  her 
flashing  smile  over  her  shoulder  at  her 


A   SLAVE    TO    DUTY 

mother  and  Frank.  Mrs.  Wilder  was  the 
image  of  a  placid,  sweet-natured  gentle- 
woman, softly  shimmering  in  grays,  with 
crisp  white  tulle  at  her  throat  and  in  her 
widow's  cap.  Wait  was  standing  at  the 
piano.  She  had  her  mother's  dove's  eyes  and 
delicately  fair  skin,  and  her  mother's  slim 
grace  and  sweet  expression;  but  she  had 
never  been  pretty,  like  her  mother — only 
what  the  Jeffries  people  called  "nice  look- 
ing." She  had  been  singing  the  Easter 
hymns  over  with  Nora,  Mrs.  Wilder  joining 
them  occasionally  in  a  thin,  sweet,  true 
treble,  and  Frank  listening.  He  extended 
his  immaculate  lavender  trousers,  and  peace- 
fully surveyed  his  varnished  shoes.  His  large ' 
frame  had  relaxed  every  muscle.  His  keen 
gray  eyes  were  beaming  with  lazy  kindness, 
and  he  smiled  under  his  brown  mustache  so 
benevolently  that  one  would  hardly  notice 
the  bold  outline  of  his  shaven  jaws  and  his 
Roman  nose.  Nobody,  he  least  of  all,  would 
have  pictured  this  genial  image  breaking  the 
ten  commandments  and  the  laws  of  his  coun- 
try before  sunset.  That  is  because  we  are 
not  prophets. 

3 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

Close  to  Frank,  rubbing  his  cheek  against 
the  big  man's  knee,  sat  a  boy  of  six,  whose  un- 
happy fate  was  written  on  his  face,  in  the  low 
forehead,  vacant  eyes  and  sagging  mouth; 
yet  he  was  not  otherwise  repulsive  Indeed, 
he  wore  a  smile  of  timid  good-will  that 
excited  good-will  and  compassion  in  return. 
While  the  others  were  busied  at  the  piano,  he 
plucked  at  Frank's  sleeve  and  showed  him 
something  hidden  under  the  chair.  He 
chuckled  and  cooed  like  a  baby  of  two,  then, 
instantly,  made  a  face  of  exaggerated  warn- 
ing. 

"What  are  you  after,  old  man?"  said 
Frank,  lazily. 

Wait  instantly  turned  her  head.  Any  one 
who  saw  her  could  tell  that  she  was  his 
mother,  and  that  her  soul  was  bound  up  in 
him. 

"Maybe  he  wants  his  own  hymn,"  she 
said;  "he  can  tell  the  difference,  and  always 
knows  his  own. "  She  began  to  sing: 

"Onward,  Christian  soldier, 
Marching  as  for  war.'' 

But  the  boy,  although  apparently  listening 
to  the  hymn,  slyly  nipped  his  uncle's  leg  and 


A  SLAVE  TO  DUTY 

displayed  his  treasure.  His  mother  detected 
the  action. 

"What  is  he  trying  to  show  you?  Why, 
Bertie,  you  aren't  playing  boat  on  Sun- 
day?" 

Bertie  hung  his  head,  but  his  mother 
crossed  the  room  to  kiss  him,  and  her  face 
was  alight. 

"See,  mother,"  she  cried,  joyously,  "he 
knows  the  difference ;  he  knows  he  is  doing 
wrong!"  And  she  kissed  him  again. 

' '  It  does  show  reason, ' '  said  Mrs.  Wilder, 
a  little  dubiously. 

"Of  course  it  does,"  Frank  agreed,  in  a 
confident  tone.  "He  actually  pinched  my 
leg  to  get  me  onto  his  little  game. ' ' 

"You  are  so  good  to  him,  Frank,"  said 
Wait;  "but  truly,  don't  you  think  he  under- 
stands? and  he  knows  a  good  many  more 
words  all  the  time. ' ' 

"Oh,  he's  coming  on,"  said  Frank,  "and 
the  boat  is  a  nice  boat  for  any  boy  of  six  to 
make.  It's  neatly  done,  remarkably  neatly 
done." 

"He  does  everything  so  neatly,"  said  his 
mother.  "Why,  he  can  sew  a  seam  on  the 
5 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

machine  so  you  can  use  it,  and  he  doesn't 
mind  doing  anything  over  and  over  again 
until  he  has  it  right.  Come,  Bertie,  let  us 
go  out  to  walk." 

"Uncle  Nice,"  said  Bertie,  slowly,  pulling 
at  Frank's  sleeve. 

"No,  dearie,  Uncle  Nice  must  stay  and 
talk  to  grandma. ' ' 

Bertie  submitted  with  his  usual  docility; 
but  before  he  went  he  threw  his  arms 
around  his  uncle's  neck  and  kissed  him. 
Wait  was  looking;  her  pale  face  flushed  up 
to  her  eyebrows,  as  she  involuntarily 
extended  her  hand  to  draw  Bertie  away. 
But  Frank  kissed  the  little  fellow  on  his 
cheek,  and  patted  his  shoulder  and  frankly 
wiped  his  own  cheek,  smiling  and  saying: 

"That  was  what  I  call  a  large,  round,  loud 
kiss.  Here,  give  me  a  small,  square,  soft 
kiss— like  this." 

Wait  watched  Bertie  obey  and  laugh  de- 
lightedly at  his  uncle's  approval.  "I  don't 
wonder  he  calls  you  Uncle  Nice, ' '  she  said ; 
"but  you  mustn't  let  him  bother  you.  Don't 
you  think  his  picking  up  that  name  shows 
he  is  beginning  to  think?" 

6 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

"Of  course  I  do,"  laughed  Frank;  "it 
shows  discernment. ' ' 

"I  like  that  little  chap,"  said  Frank,  when 
Wait  had  gone;  "there  t's  a  chance  for  him. 
Not  to  be  like  other  boys,  poor  little 
defrauded  chap,  but  to  be  able  to  do  things 
with  his  hands  so  that  his  life  will  not  be  all 
a  burden.  One  thing  anybody  must  see,  he 
is  very  sweet-natured. " 

"That  is  his  mother's  gift  to  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Wilder. 

"Yes,  Wait  had  always  the  sweetest 
temper,"  Nora  stuck  in,  "and  she  was  so 
unselfish  she  nearly  ruined  my  disposition. 
Oh,  I  mean  it,  mamma;  if  I  wanted  a 
thing,  and  two  couldn't  have  it,  she  would 
deceive  and  cudgel  her  conscience  into  alleg- 
ing that  she  didn't  want  it  at  all,  and  I  must 
have  it.  Positively,  I  wonder  I  am  as  decent 
as  I  am.  She  had  a  voracious  appetite  for 
self-sacrifice,  and  I  was  her  victim,  because 
you  wouldn't  be." 

"Her  husband  didn't  object  to  her  self- 
sacrifice,"  said  Frank.  "What  a  brute  he 
was!  Do  you  remember  that  night  when  I 
happened  up  suddenly,  and  she  came  over 
7 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

with  Nora?  He  had  the  jimjams  and 
imagined  Nora  was  a  devil's  child — he  was 
painting  some  sort  of  witch  picture  just 
then — and  wanted  to  shoot  her.  Wait 
insisted  on  going  back  herself.  So  I  went 
with  her.  He  was  quiet  enough  with  the 
doctor  and  me.  I  tried  my  best  to  get  Wait 
to  leave  him,  then,  but  she  wouldn't.  He 
was  her  husband ;  she  had  promised  for  better 
or  for  worse.  There  is  only  one  thing  that 
would  make  it  right  for  her  to  leave  him. 
'Well,  the  wnole  world  knows  you've  plenty 
of  that, '  says  I ;  'if  that's  all  you're  haggling 
about,  come  now !'  But  of  course  I  had  noth- 
ing but  gossip,  and  she  wouldn't  believe  that. 
I  talked  with  her  half  an  hour,  until  she  was 
shivering  and  blue  around  the  mouth,  and  I 
felt  like  an  assassin,  but  it  was  no  use. 
She  said,  'Oh,  Frank,  you've  been  a  kind 
brother  to  me;  I  hate  to  oppose  you — '  " 
"She^,"  cried  Mrs.  Wilder.  "Wait  has 
always  thought  everything  of  you,  ever  since 
that  time  Clay  ran  away  with  the  doctor's 
phaeton  and  horse  to  Maxwell,  and  you 
brought  it  home  and  wouldn't  tell  who  took 
it,  and  were  suspended  for  it." 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

"More  fool  I,"  said  Frank.  "I  got  that 
sneak  safe  home  to  the  house,  drunk  as  he 
was,  and  got  two  months  off  and  a  rowing 
from  my  father,  and  a  letter  that  was  worse 
than  a  rowing  from  my  mother,  for  I  know 
she  cried  all  the  way  through  it.  Oh,  I  owe 
Clay  one  for  that!  But  I  was  telling  you 
what  she  said.  'I  can't  desert  Clay,'  says 
she;  'he  has  only  me.  You  think  I  have  no 
influence  over  him.  because  you  only  see 
when  I  fail.  You  see  how  unhappy  we  are 
sometimes;  you  don't  see  our  happier 
times — '  I  cut  in  right  there.  'Are  your 
happier  times  happy?'  says  I.  She  got 
tangled  up  in  her  conscience  directly,  and 
couldn't  answer — dodged,  and  went  to  talk- 
ing about  how  a  man  of  genius  couldn't  be 
judged  like  other  men,  and  how  terribly  Clay 
repented,  and  how  he  felt  that  she  was  the 
only  thing  that  kept  him  from  despair  and 
suicide.  'Oh,  Frank,'  she  cried,  'his  blood 
will  be  on  my  soul  if  I  leave  him ! '  '  Blood 
nothing,'  said  I.  'I  know  Clay's  breed;  he'd 
drink  himself  blind  drunk,  and  then  he'd 
brace  up  and  paint  a  ripping  good  picture 
and  get  a  pot  of  money  for  it. '  I  was  right, 
9 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

too,  but  I  couldn't  make  Wait  see  it  that 
way.  And  I  suppose  I  went  off  crosser  than 
I  ever  expected  to  be  at  Wait.  Poor  Wait ! 
I  begged  her  for  little  Nora,  but  she  said 
he  was  fond  of  the  child.  I  told  her  it 
wasn't  safe.  It  wasn't." 

He  was  talking  with  vehemence,  striding 
up  and  down  the  room  before  he  finished. 
Mrs.  Wilder  was  brushing  away  the  tears. 

"Don't  say  it,  Frank,"  pleaded  she;  "you 
do  him  injustice.  God  knows  I  have  no 
cause  to  excuse  him,  but  let  us  be  just  even 
to  the  cruel  and  unjust.  He  threw  that  bust 
at  Wait,  not  Nora,  and  it  never  touched  the 
child.  The  doctor  said  it  was  her  heart; 
that  she  could  not  have  lived  many  years  in 
any  case.  He  thought  that  he  had  killed 
her,  because  when  she  fell  she  struck  her  fore- 
head, and  the  blood  was  streaming  from  it. 
But  it  was  all  her  heart. ' ' 

"He  frightened  her  to  death  instead  of 
hitting  her  with  a  wild  throw.  I  don't  see  it 
makes  things  any  better  for  him,"  retorted 
Frank,  bitterly. 

"But,  Frank,  Wait  said  he  never  was  cruel 
to  little  Nora.  It  was  only  in  his  delirium, 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

when  he  thought  she  was  something  else, 
that  he  was — was  dangerous." 

"And  how  about  Wait?"  said  Frank, 
between  his  teeth.  "Did  he  ever  strike 
her?" 

Mrs.  Wilder  flushed  and  shook  her  head. 

"Wait  would  never  tell  if  he  had." 

"But  you  have  eyes;  what  do  you  think 
yourself?" 

"It  may  have  been;  I  don't  know.  Once 
Wait  had  a  bruise  on  the  side  of  her  cheek. 
She  said  it  was  an  accident,  and  I — I  didn't 
dare  to  question  her,  Frank.  It  seemed  to  me 
I  couldn't  live  if  he  had;  and  yet  I  knew  she 
wouldn't  leave  him,  and  so  I  was  afraid  to 
know,  and  didn't  question  her.  You  will 
think  I  was  very  pusillanimous  and  useless 
all  that  bad  time ;  but,  Frank,  I  never  used  to 
question  her  about  anything.  I  used  to  ask 
about  Clay,  just  as  if  he  were  like  other  hus- 
bands, and  I  kept  little  Nora  here  all  I  could, 
and  did  what  I  could  for  Wait  in  little  ways." 

"How  New  England!"  exclaimed  Nora, 
"we  would  have  had  it  out  with  Wait, 
but  we  didn't  half  realize  it,  away  off  there  in 
Chicago.  Clay  always  kept  straight  when  we 


A   SLAVE  TO   DUTY 

made  a  visit,  and  Wait  kept  things  so  close ; 
but  she  couldn't  keep  them  from  the  servants. 
And  then  the  townspeople  talked.  They 
never  liked  him  because  he  never  made  no 
secret  how  he  hated  Jeffries'  people." 

"I  remember  the  reason  he  gave  me  for 
living  in  Jeffries — so  he  could  leave  the  dam 
place  oftener,"  said  Frank.  "But  of  course 
the  real  reason  was  that  his  uncle  left  him 
his  three  thousand  a  year  on  condition  he 
lived  in  Jeffries.  Then  he  owned  the  house, 
and  it  could  not  be  sold  during  his  life.  Oh, 
his  uncle  was  a  wise  old  boy!" 

"Didn't  he  have  but  three  thousand  at  any 
time,  Frank?"  Mrs.  Wilder  questioned. 
"Why,  he  had  four  servants  and  horses  and 
carriages  and  those — those  people  coming  to 
see  him.  Wait  always  came  over  to  me  when 
they  came.  She  had  such  a  hard  time  keep- 
ing nice  girls;  they  said  they  didn't  like  to 
have  the  gentleman  of  the  house  swear  at 
them,  and,"  rather  dryly,  "I  fancy  they  liked 
less  to  have  him  kiss  them.  When  I  heard 
that,  I  felt  it  would  be  right  for  Wait  to 
leave  him.  But  I  couldn't  convince  her.  The 
bills  were  'a.  part  of  the  misery.  It  was  so 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

humiliating  to  have  a  decent  man  like  Hollin, 
the  butcher,  for  instance,  that  we  have  always 
dealt  with,  come  up  to  Wait  herself  and  tell 
her  he  wouldn't  ask  her,  but  he  needed 
the  money  to  pay  his  own  bills,  and  he  had 
sent  in  the  bill  to  Mr.  Bostwick  so  many 
times;  and  when  she  asked  him,  to  find  it 
had  been  running  two  years,  and  was  eight 
hundred  dollars!  And  the  others  were  not 
quite  so  bad,  but  the  amounts  were  larger 
sometimes. ' ' 

4 'What  did  Wait  do?" 

"Why,  you  know  he  was  very  generous  to 
her,  and  gave  her  beautiful  jewels." 

"I'm  sure  that  as  long  as  his  credit  held 
out  he  would  be  the  most  lavish  of  men  to 
her— or  any  other  lady. ' ' 

"That  was  the  trouble,  Frank.  Wait  took 
a  string  of  pearls  he  gave  her  and  sold  it  and 
paid  Hollin;  but  when  she  came  to  try  to 
pay  the  others,  she  found  that  almost  all  of 
the  things  had  not  been  paid  for.  She 
returned  them  all.  Then  she  insisted  that 
they  make  some  kind  of  arrangement  with 
their  creditors,  so  they  could  get  payments 
on  the  debts.  That  was  what  made  him  so 
13 


A   SLAVE    TO    DUTY 

furious.  Of  course,  he  made  a  large  income 
by  his  pictures,  but  he  was  so  erratic.  For  a 
month  he  would  paint  night  and  day,  almost ; 
make  her  fetch  him  all  his  meals  and  wait 
on  him,  and  then  for  six  months  he  might 
not  touch  a  brush.  I  don't  see  how  he  ever 
accomplished  anything.  And  you  know  he 
always  had  times  of  going  away  without 
notice,  and  staying  a  few  days  or  a  week. 
Once  he  stayed  a  month,  and  she  was  wild 
with  anxiety.  That,"  added  Mrs.  Wilder, 
with  a  touch  of  unconscious  irony,  "was 
during  the  first  year  of  her  marriage; 
she  wasn't  so  anxious  later.  She  didn't 
venture  to  make  any  search  for  him,  for  that 
threw  him  into  a  violent  passion;  so  she 
would  appear  as  if  he  were  absent  quite 
naturally.  She  struggled  so  hard,  poor  child, 
to  hide  things,  even  from  me.  It  was  only 
after  he  died  that  she  told  me  about  the 
debts.  That  was  because  she  wanted  to  take 
the  income  which  was  continued  to  her  and 
the  children  in  case  of  his  death  and  pay  the 
debts.  She  took  every  cent  from  the  sale  of 
the  house,  and,  Frank,  that  girl  hasn't  spent 
a  hundred  dollars  a  year  on  herself  since 

H 


A   SLAVE  TO   DUTY 

Clay  ran  away  and  was  drowned.  Bertie 
has  his  own  income;  she  wouldn't  stint 
him." 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  mother,"  said 
Frank,  by  this  time  back  comfortably  in  the 
easy-chair,  "that  there  is  precious  little 
known  about  Clay  Bostwick's  death?  He 
ran  out  of  the  house  when  he  found  his  child 
was  dead,  and  never  was  seen  again  until  a 
dead  body  in  his  clothes  was  fished  up  in  the 
Charles  river.  There  was  nothing  except 
the  clothes  by  which  he  could  be  identified, 
and  while  perhaps  this  meant  nothing,  the 
body  was  an  inch  and  a  half  shorter  than 
Bostwick.  Oh,  don't  look  so  scared,  both  of 
you!  I  haven't  heard  anything;  I  simply 
spoke  out  my  thoughts.  If  the  cur  wasn't 
dead  he  would  have  sneaked  back  after  the 
money  before  this.  But  see  here,  mother, 
why  wasn't  /  told  of  Wait's  scrimping  her- 
self? We've  got  to -stop  it,  you  know.  Pay 
off  the  proper  debts  and  squelch  the  others, 
and  generally  clear  decks. ' ' 

"If  Wait  won't  let  me  help  her,  do  you 
suppose  she  will  let  you?"  Mrs.  Wilder 
asked,  with  a  smile  that  trod  hard  on  a  sigh. 
15 


A  SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

"Well,  hardly;  and  I  dare  say  I  ought  to 
be  obliged  to  her  for  forgiving  me  the 
tremendously  plain  talk  I  gave  her  the  last 
time  I  advised  her  to  leave  Bostwick.  It 
was  one  time  I  was  here.  Whenever  I  was 
here,  I  advised  her  to  throw  her  husband 
overboard.  The  last  time  I  came,  she  had 
an  errand  to  Boston,  and  I  didn't  see  her. 
But  this  time  I  sailed  in  at  such  a  rate,  I 
didn't  dare  to  tell  Nora." 

"I've  always  suspected  you  said  frightful 
things  to  her." 

"Well,  there  you  all  were  never  mention- 
ing the  dog's  habits  to  him  or  to  her,  and 
being  as  polite  to  him  as  if  he  were  a  decent 
man.  It  kept  my  temper  on  the  jump,  and 
I  determined  to  have  it  out  with  her.  He 
had  come  home  drunk.  He  never  got  drunk 
in  an  ordinary,  respectable  way  like  other 
people — topple  over  and  put  him  to  bed  and 
wake  him  up  ashamed  of  himself  and  want- 
ing a  new  heart  and  a  new  stomach  created 
in  him  the  next  morning — not  a  bit  of  it. 
He  never  got  so  he  couldn't  walk  straight 
and  talk  straight  until  the  very  collapse  at 
the  end;  but  his  nerves  were  all  flayed 
16 


A  SLAVE  TO  DUTY 

alive,  as  if  good  whisky  were  sulphuric  acid. 
But  then  he  drank  such  grotesque  sweet 
stuffs  in  his  esthetic,  tommyrot  notions — 
liqueurs  and  mixed  stuff  and  sweet  cham- 
pagne, ugh! — I  don't  wonder  he  went  raving 
crazy  after  a  week  of  such  insults  to  his 
stomach.  He  came  home  and  told  his  wife  he 
was  tired  of  seeing  that — never  mind  what 
he  called  poor  little  Bertie!  I  never  saw 
Wait  angry  before,  but  she  did  fire  up  at 
him,  then." 

"Where  were  you  to  hear  all  this?" 
exclaimed  Nora. 

"Outside  on  the  veranda.  It  was  a  warm 
summer  night.  I  innocently  walked  on  the 
piazza  until  the  maid  could  tell  Mrs.  Bostwick 
I  was  there.  After  the  maid  had  gone  up- 
stairs, Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bostwick  were  having 
it  out  in  the  music-room.  I  caught  on  to  the 
situation  in  a  flash,  and  I  listened." 

"Frank!"  Nora  said  the  word,  but  Mrs. 
Wilder  looked  at  him. 

"That's  right,"    said  Frank,  tapping  his 

white,    square    finger-tips   together    softly. 

"You  must  remember  I  haven't  the  New 

England  conscience  in  full  bloom;    I  have 

17 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

only  a  plain,  horse-sense,  working,  Western 
conscience  that  sometimes  takes  a  nap.  I 
wanted  to  hear,  and  I  listened  till  things  got 
warm,  when  I  stepped  in  and  offered  Bost- 
wick  the  choice  of  walking  out  of  the  window 
or  being  kicked  out.  He  was  pretty  wiry,  but 
he  walked ;  and  then  I  read  the  riot  act  to 
Wait;  I  told  her  she  ought  to  leave  that 
brute — next  minute.  I  told  her  it  wasn't 
only  the  dam  degradation  of  the  life  with 
him;  it  was — and  then  I  pointed  to  Bertie. 
Yes,  I  was  determined  to  talk  plain,  for  once. 
I  guess  I  did.  It  was  a  year  after  I  had  first 
begged  her  to  leave  Bostwick  that  Bertie  was 
born.  '  That  is  a  worse  crime  than  any 
divorce,'  said  I.  But  I  didn't  do  any  good. 
She  fainted,  and  I  loaded  her  into  a  carriage 
and  took  her  over  to  you,  mother.  But  it  was 
no  use;  she  went  back  the  next  day." 

"Oh,  Frank,  it  was  harsh,  dear,  when  her 
whole  being  is  so  bound  up  in  that  boy! 
She  only  did  what  she  thought  to  be  right. ' ' 
His  mother-in-law  looked  at  him  with  a  mix- 
ture of  fright  and  compulsory  condemnation 
and  unwilling,  womanly  admiration  for  his 
daring  and  his  strength.  <4Yes,  you  did 

18 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

very  wrong,  Frank,  and  I'm  thankful  Nora 
has  a  husband  like  you, ' '  cried  Mrs.  Wilder. 

"And  that  Wait's  husband  is  dead, "  added 
Frank. 

"Well,  it's  good  to  hear  Wait  singing  as 
she  used  to,  and  running  after  mother  with 
rubbers — Hullo,  here  she  is  back  again! 
Well,  young  feller!" 

But  Bertie  bounded  into  the  room  into 
Frank's  arms,  and  burst  out  sobbing;  Frank 
could  feel  the  heart  thumping  against  his 
bony  little  chest.  "Oh,  now,  that's  not  the 
way  to  do,  young  feller!"  He  soothed  the 
child  more  by  his  voice  than  his  words. 
"What's  happened?" 

' '  Bad — man ! ' '  gasped  Bertie. 

"Bad  man?  What  did  bad  man  do  to 
frighten  you?  Come  on,  tell  us." 

Frank,  it  was  noticeable,  always  talked  to 
Bertie  as  if  he  were  of  the  same  mental  force 
as  other  boys,  and  some  obscure  nerve  in  the 
mother's  shamed  heart  vibrated  to  the 
unforced  tone.  As  she  watched  the  man 
soothe  the  boy,  the  lines  of  her  face  changed 
as  the  lines  of  a  reflected  face  change  in 
running  water. 

19 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

"Frank,"  said  she,  "if  there  were  any 
danger  threatening  Bertie,  and  I  couldn't  do 
much  for  him,  would  you  take  him  to  some 
good  institution  and  see  that  he  was  properly 
cared  for,  for  awhile?" 

Frank's  keen  eyes  narrowed  and  his 
mouth  set  itself  in  a  hair's  breadth  straighter 
line. 

"Of  course  I'll  look  out  for  the  little 
chap,"  said  he;  "but  what  are  you  driving 
at,  Wait?  Has  Bostwick  turned  up?" 

"Yes,"  said  Wait. 

Often  when  a  family  has,  for  a  long  time, 
dreaded  a  blow  in  secret  (ever  struggling 
to  persuade  itself  that  there  is  no  blow  to 
fall),  when  the  hair  snaps  and  the  sword  falls, 
there  is  a  revulsion  of  frankness;  they  tell 
themselves,  out  loud,  that  they  always 
expected  it. 

"I  knew  he  would  come!"  exclaimed  poor 
Mrs.  Wilder.  She  went  to  her  daughter  and 
began  with  trembling  fingers  to  remove  her 
cape ;  it  is  the  instant  impulse  to  treat  any 
afflicted  person  as  helpless.  Nora  fluttered 
around  her  sister  and  made  her  sit  down. 
Then  she  brought  a  glass  of  water  and  a 


A  SLAVE  TO   DUTY 

fan,  although  it  was  rather  a  chilly  April 
day  and  a  fire  was  blazing  behind  the  old- 
fashioned  andirons 

Frank,  being  a  man  and  seeing  no  chance 
of  service,  kept  his  seat  and  whispered  to 
Bertie,  who  suddenly  burst  out  into  a  cackle 
of  laughter.  Bertie's  laugh  was  always 
unhuman  and  painful;  now  it  was  ghastly. 

'  'You  must  be  mistaken,  Wait, "  said  Nora, 
although  a  moment  before  she  had  echoed 
her  mother's  plaint. 

"No,  I  wasn't  mistaken,  Nora,"  replied 
Wait;  her  voice  was  like  ice.  "He  had  been 
very  ill,  he  said;  and  he  had  for  the  most  of 
the  time  been  away — in  Australia.  That 
was  why  we  had  not  heard. ' ' 

"Was  he — was  he — "  Mrs.  Wilder  stum- 
bled over  the  word;  it  seemed  a  dreadful 
one  to  the  reticent  New  England  woman. 

"He  was  perfectly  sober,"  said  Wait. 
"He  told  me  he  hadn't  been  drinking  for  a 
long  time." 

"How  did  he  frighten  Bertie?"  Frank 
asked. 

"I  was  so  startled  I  screamed;  and  he  held 
Bertie  to — to  prevent  him  running  away." 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

Frank  whispered  a  question  in  Bertie's  ear, 
to  which  the  child  nodded  eagerly,  beginning 
to  roll  up  the  sleeve  of  his  little  velvet 
blouse ;  but  Frank  stopped  him  with  another 
whisper.  "He  didn't  mean  to  hurt  the 
child,"  said  Wait,  turning  her  miserable 
eyes  on  Frank.  "He  hasn't  the  strength. 
He  looked  very  ill;  I  never  saw  him  look 
so  ill;  and  he  said  that  he  had  only  come 
back  to  die.  He  said  he  wanted  to  see  me, 
and  he  asked  if  he  might  go  to  little  Nora's 
grave — " 

Nora's  disgust  overflowed  her  prudence  as 
the  Mississippi  races  through  a  broken  levee. 
"The  thing  that  made  Clay  so  detestable 
wasn't  his  wickedness,  but  his  repentance!" 
she  cried.  "He  was  loathsome,  then!  How 
did  he  know  he  had  not  killed  Nora?" 

"1  told  him." 

Mrs.  Wilder  groaned ;  she  couldn't  help  it ; 
Nora  sprang  furiously  out  of  her  c^ir,  cry- 
ing, "You  let  go  the  only  hold  we  have  on 
him?" 

"J  know,"  Wait  answered,  meekly.  "I 
seem  like  a  fool  to  you,  Nora,  but  he  asked 
me,  and  I  had  to  tell  the  truth." 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

"That  depends,"  muttered  Nora,  but  it 
was  under  her  breath.  She  was  now  pacing 
the  floor,  too  feverishly  excited  to  keep  still 
like  Frank.  "I  think  the  best,  the  very  best 
thing  is  for  you  to  go  away  with  Frank  some- 
where, to-night,  and  leave  us  to  settle  with 
that  fellow. ' ' 

But  Wait  in  her  turn  rose,  not  with 
energy,  like  her  sister,  but  limply,  dragging 
herself  up,  and  said,  "I  can't  talk  until  I 
have  thought  it  over.  Bertie,  come  with 
mamma. ' ' 

Bertie  shook  his  head,  and  murmured, 
"Uncle  Nice."  Not  until  Frank  had  whis- 
pered a  sentence  to  him  and  slipped  his  own 
penknife  in  his  pocket,  would  he  clamber  off 
his  refuge  and  follow  his  mother.  It  would 
have  been  better  for  them  to  talk ;  and  each 
of  them  sought  in  his  or  her  mind  for  some 
innocent  sentence  that  Wait  might  hear 
without  being  wounded;  but  nobody  found 
any,  and  they  sat  staring  at  each  other, 
while  the  footfalls  wearily  climbed  the  stair. 
Then  both  women  looked  at  the  man,  both 
simultaneously  said,  ' '  Frank,  what  shall  we 
do?" 

23 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

Frank  did  not  give  them  much  comfort. 
He  had  pulled  out  a  note-book  and  pencil. 
"Is  the  telegraph  office  open  Sundays?"  he 
said;  "and  where  does  the  operator  live?" 

Mrs.  Wilder  told  him. 

"Is  Dacre  still  cashier  of  the  bank?  And 
lives  at  the  same  place?  And  does  old 
Squire  Barber  still  deal  out  justice?" 

Mrs.  Wilder  answered  his  questions  con- 
cisely, without  return  questions,  and  to  his 
satisfaction,  except  in  the  last  instance. 
The  old  justice  was  dead. 

"Well,  never  mind;  it  can't  be  helped. 
Keep  Wait  in  the  house  if  you  can;  and 
don't  expect  me  back  until  you  see  me. 
Mother,  what  does  Wait  mean  to  do?" 

"She  means  to  go  back,  to  Clay,  I  think, 
Frank.  Do  you  suppose  he  really  is  likely 
to  die?" 

"It's  possible;  he's  gone  the  pace  so  that 
his  dying  is  always  in  the  deal;  but  he's  so 
foxy  you  can't  tell.  He'd  be  a  pestiferous 
invalid,  I  should  say.  anyhow.  Don't 
worry;  we  shan't  have  to  take  care  of  him." 

Then  he  had  gone,  and  the  women  could 
only  sit  and  listen,  or  steal  to  the  stair  and 
24 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

listen  there  for  some  sound  behind  the  closed 
door  at  the  head. 

And  Wait  kneeled  by  the  bed,  while  Bertie 
gurgled  happily  over  his  boat,  which  he  had 
recovered  and  was  stealthily  carving. 

The  attitude  was  a  vague  support  to  her; 
for  she  was  half  fainting  with  weariness. 
She  tried  to  think,  to  consider;  but  instead 
of  definite  arguments,  or  even  definite 
temptations,  her  married  life  floated  vaguely 
before  her  in  detached  scenes.  She  was 
hearing  Frank's  impatient  voice,  "I  tell 
you,  you  go  back  to  a  life  of  infamy!  That 
man's  marriage  was  a  crime.  His  father 
had  insane  streaks ;  he  himself  is  the  worst 
kind  of  an  insane  man — a  willfully  vicious 
one!  You  don't  know  half  how  bad  he  is!" 
Didn't  she?  Yet  there  were  scenes  that 
seemed  burned  into  her  heart  with  red-hot 
iron,  so  that  the  touch  of  the  lightest  memory 
on  them  made  her  writhe  and  moan  in  tor- 
ment. "The  dam  degradation  of  it!"  It  was 
cruel  in  Frank  to  say  that.  Didn't  he  know 
she  was  his  wife,  Clay's  wife!  She  could  see 
the  nurse's  oblong  face  and  the  two  double 
chins  and  the  flap  of  flannel  over  the  baby's 
25 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

head.  But  the  baby  was  all  right.  Not  a 
pretty  baby,  her  poor  little  boy;  but  all 
right.  And  she  would  not  believe  that  he 
must  be  like  his  father.  God  would  be 
merciful  Anything!  anything  rather  than 
that !  And  perhaps  God  had  been  merciful, 
in  this  strange,  distorted  way.  Her  baby 
was  safe.  He  would  always  need  her, 
always  be  her  baby.  She  turned  her  body, 
still  on  her  knees,  to  look  for  Bertie,  and 
saw  him  with  his  boat.  He  put  it  hastily 
behind  his  back,  and  in  so  doing  cut  his  hand 
slightly  with  the  knife.  The  sight  of  the 
blood  put  the  half-distracted  woman  into  a 
passion  of  anguish.  She  clasped  him  fran- 
tically to  her  heart,  in  a  clasp  so  tight  that 
he  was  scared. 

"Hu't!  hu't!"  he  whimpered,  using  one  of 
his  few  words,  and  rubbing  his  arm.  She 
pulled  up  his  sleeve.  There  were  the  livid 
marks  of  fingers  on  the  white,  soft  flesh. 
Her  kisses  and  her  tears  rained  down  on  it. 
"I  can't  take  him,  I  can't  take  him  with 
me,"  she  would  cry.  And  then,  "Cruel!  he 
was  always  cruel!"  But  in  a  very  little 
while,  bending  over  to  help  her  dizzy  way 
26 


A   SLAVE  TO  DUTY 

across  the  floor,  she  knelt  again ;  and  again 
the  squalid  procession  of  her  sufferings  and 
her  struggles  drifted  to  the  accompaniment 
of  her  prayers  for  light. 

She  tried  to  recall  those  earlier  days  when 
she  had  felt  the  charm  that  many  a  woman 
found  in  Clay  Bostwick.  He  was  a  mere 
stripling.  They  were  only  children  when 
they  were  married.  Her  mother  had  feared. 
Even  then  there  were  ugly  rumors  and 
stories  buzzing  about.  Nora  would  fetch 
them  home  and  beg  her  mother  to  send  Clay 
away;  he  was  not  a  nice  boy.  But  Clay, 
when  her  mother  talked  to  him  with  pretense 
of  severity  and  inward  compassion  for  the 
delicate  young  lad — Clay  had  burst  into  tears 
and  admitted  he  wasn't  what  he  ought  to  be, 
but — if  she  would  only  let  him  stay,  only 
try  him  once  more !  He  had  no  mother,  and 
his  father  was  worse  than  none.  And  Mrs. 
Wilder  had  relented.  He  had  stayed.  How 
attentive  he  was;  how  he  worked  over  the 
only  thing  he  cared  for,  art!  Yet — how 
could  they  tell,  those  unworldly,  kindly 
women,  what  those  occasional  absences  of 
his  meant?  Even  now,  Wait  wondered,  did 
27 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

she  comprehend  all  that  they  meant?  And 
the  years  in  Paris,  when  the  letters  came  at 
intervals,  and  beautiful  gifts  for  her 
mother — she  was  glad  her  mother  would  not 
take  them — and  then  the  handsome  young 
fellow  with  his  halo  of  success  about  him, 
and  the  notices  of  the  picture  in  the  salon, 
and  the  intoxicating  prophecies — was  it  so 
wrong  and  strange  that  they  who  did  not 
know  the  world,  should  believe  in  him,  that 
Wait  should  love  him?  "Waitstill,  my  own 
little  Waitstill,  it's  the  sweetest  name  in  the 
world,  the  dear  little  Puritan  name,"  he  had 
murmured,  "and  I  have  kept  it  in  my  heart." 
His  uncle  had  pushed  the  marriage.  He 
was  sure  with  Wait  the  boy  would  be  steady. 
He  knew  better  before  he  died. 

The  procession  drifted  on.  Is  there  any 
awakening  so  cruel  as  the  slow,  then  faster, 
then  hideously  swift  awakening  of  a  wife  to 
a  knowledge  of  the  real  nature  of  marriage 
with  a  man  whose  surface  refinement,  by  its 
greater  power  of  imagination,  only  stimu- 
lates and  expands  his  vices! 

There  was  not  a  clean,  robust,  honest  ideal 
of  her  childhood  that  her  husband  did  not 
28 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

outrage  by  his  speech  and  his  actions.  He 
was  without  truth  or  honor  or  temperance  or 
purity  or  any  faithfulness.  His  first  passion 
waned  before  she  had  worn  out  her  pretty 
bridal  clothes.  It  would  return  in  the  shape 
in  which  such  a  feeling  does  return  to  such 
a  man;  but  it  was  never  strong  enough, 
after  the  first,  to  hold  his  bitter  tongue,  nor 
to  curb  a  single  brutal  whim,  far  less  to 
cleanse  his  life.  Wait  was  like  the  daintily 
kept,  warm,  lighted  home  that  was  always 
ready  for  him.  When  he  had  chased  the 
excitement  for  which  his  abused  nerves  were 
crying,  through  vice  into  satiety  and  disgust 
and  despair,  there  was  Wait  always  ready  to 
nurse  him  back  to  health.  She  never  up- 
braided him,  she  never  sniveled  over  him ;  in 
truth,  she  never  said  anything  about  his 
"ways."  He  liked  that.  On  the  whole  he 
had  liked  Wait.  Wait  found  herself  push- 
ing his  point  of  view  and  his  words  them- 
selves into  the  foreground  of  her  conscious- 
ness, and  trying  to  understand  him,  as  an 
outsider  who  knew  the  world  would  under- 
stand him — as  Frank  would,  for  instance. 
"Wait,  I'm  played  out.  I'm  out  of  the 
29 


A   SLAVE  TO   DUTY 

scheme.  All  I  want  is  a  decent  place  to 
crawl  into  and  be  safe,  where  I  can  see  you. 
Repent!  You  never  talked  repent  before. 
When  I  finished  a  spree  and  was  sick  you 
amused  me,  and  never  mentioned.  That's 
the  kind  of  wife  for  me.  Wait,  I  can  paint 
a  great  picture  still,  if  you'll  only  keep  me 
straight  for  six  months — and  I  live  that 
long.  Wait,  send  that  jabbering  creature  off 
a  little,  so  I  can  see  you.  Great — oh,  no, 
I'm  not  going  to  swear;  I  was  only  going 
to  pay  you  a  compliment  on  your  looks.  I 
did  love  you,  little  sweetheart.  .  I  never 
loved  any  other  woman.  You  might  take 
that  into  account  about  forgiving  me.  And 
if  suffering  counts,  the  hell  I  went  through 
after — "  It  was  real,  his  shudder.  It  was 
real,  too,  the  pallor  of  his  haggard  face  and 
the  glassy  look  of  his  beautiful  violet  eyes, 
as  he  pleaded  with  her  that  afternoon.  The 
one  plea  that  overquelled  everything  was  his 
dreary  iteration.  "Wait,  I  haven't  anybody 
but  you !  Wait,  save  me ;  let  me  die  half- 
way decent!" 

She  was  not  afraid  of  his  cruelty ;  she  was 
afraid,  with  a  terror  of  fear,  of  his  reviving 
30 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

tenderness.  "I  never  can  love  him,"  she 
groaned.  "To-day,  I  thought  how  horrid 
he  looked;  and  his  hand — I  wanted  to 
scream  when  he  touched  me.  And  he  is  my 
husband!"  She  began  to  pray  in  a  whisper, 
not  in  sentences  that  she  shaped  to  hold  her 
own  sore  need,  but  in  collects  or  prayers 
from  the  litany  or  bits  of  childish  verse,  in 
anything  that  might  distract  her  mind  from 
the  visions  that  cursed  her. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Mrs.  Wilder 
crept  half-way  along  the  hall  and  caught  a 
murmur,  "cleanse  the  desires  of  our  hearts," 
and  crept  away  again. 

"She's  praying,  Nora,"  she  whispered. 
"Oh,  child,  surely  if  she  prays  only  for  light, 
not  to  be  happy  or  be  saved,  God  will.  He 
must  hear  and  enlighten  her!" 

"I'm  not  so  sure,  mamma,"  said  Nora, 
stolidly.  "How  is  it  that  the  Protestants 
prayed  and  the  Catholics  prayed,  and  then 
they  got  up  from  their  knees  and  burned 
and  beheaded  each  other  for  the  glory  of 
God?  And  besides,  I'm  not  so  sure  we 
don't  make  up  our  minds  first,  and  then 
pray  to  have  them  strengthened!" 
31 


A  SLAVE  TO   DUTY 

"But  if  we  are  acting  against  our  own 
happiness — " 

"Mamma,  I  think  there  are  lots  of  people 
who  are  sure  anything  that  hurts  them  must 
be  right.  Sometimes  I  think  it  is  our  duty 
to  be  happy.  And  another  thing  that  rouses 
me  almost  to  madness  in  pious  people,  is  that 
they  usually  pick  out  some  worthless,  selfish 
object  to  sacrifice  themselves  to,  and  to 
sacrifice  all  their  friends  and  relations  with 
them,  without  a  quaver!  Now,  if  Wait 
wants  to  sacrifice  herself,  that's  one  thing; 
but  dumping  us  beside  her  on  the  altar, 
that's  another." 

Her  mother  sighed  heavily,  and  slipped 
out  of  the  room. 

Nora,  in  a  fever  of  impatience,  was  per- 
force left  to  pound  "Rise  crowned  with 
light,"  to  the  air  of  the  Russian  national 
hymn,  as  the  most  powerful  and  yet  proper 
Sunday  music  left  her. 

Mrs.  Wilder  came  down,  looking  as  if  she 
had  been  crying. 

"I  can  see  Wait  and  you  are  agreed, 
mamma" — Nora  ran  into  the  fray  at  once — 
"well,  what  is  it?" 

32 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

"She  feels  that  she  must  go  back  to  him, 
Nora.  He  is  her  husband,  and  she  promised 
for  better,  for  worse,  you  know;  and  then 
she  feels  that  he  is  not  going  to  live  long ; 
and  she  can't  thrust  a  helpless,  maybe  dying 
man  aside.  So — she  is  going  to  find  him 
and  fetch  him  here!" 

""What/"  screamed  Nora. 

"I  know  what  Frank  will  say,  Nora,"  said 
Mrs.  Wilder,  sinking  into  a  chair,  "but  I 
can't  have  Wait  away,  exposed  to  I  don't 
know  what  miseries;  and  if  he  is  in  the 
house  he  will  be  under  some  restraint — a 
little,  anyway.  If  Frank  and  you  will  take 
Bertie—" 

"Do  you  suppose  Frank  will  stay  in  this 
house  one  minute  after  that  villain  is 
here?" 

Mrs.  Wilder  began  to  cry.  But  Nora 
raged  on:  "Of  course,  you  haven't 
thought  of  yourself;  how  Clay's  habits  will 
turn  the  house  upside  down!  Betty  will 
give  warning,  and  I  don't  blame  her;  and 
Frank  said  he  never  knew  any  cook  to  roast 
ducks  better  than  she  does,  or  to  so  invari- 
ably make  lovely  bread;  she's  got  all  the 
33 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

old  recipes  that  we  used  to  like ;  and  lots  of 
good  new  things;  and  she's  so  used  to  your 
ways,  it  will  be  like  an  earthquake  to  have 
her  go;  and  she'll  take  Liza,  she'll  never  let 
that  young  thing  stay  in  a  house  where 
Clay  Bostwick  is — " 

"But  you  forget  how  ill  he  is;  he's  going 
to  die." 

"He  isn't!"  declared  Nora,  furiously. 
"He'll  outlive  us  all;  and  if  he  does  die, 
he'll  contrive  to  run  us  all  off  our  feet  before 
the  Lord  takes  mercy  on  us.  I  saw  Clay 
Bostwick  once  when  he  was  having  a  fit  of 
sickness.  The  whole  house  was  upset, 
and  poor  Wait  didn't  get  a  moment  day  nor 
night,  except  when  he  was  asleep.  A  self- 
isher  brute  I  never  knew ;  and  I  felt  as  if, 
were  I  alone  with  him,  I  should  be  tempted 
to  skip  all  his  medicines,  in  hopes  it  would 
kill  him.  I  tell  you,  mamma,  you  and  Wait 
will  make  a  murderer  out  of  me  before  you 
get  done.  You  shan't  have  him  in  the 
house;  I'll — I'll  burn  it  down  first!" 

"Would  you  have  me  let  Wait  go  away, 
with  narrow  means  and  this  sick  man  to  care 
for,  and  their  house  sold?  Wait  talked  of 

34 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

going  to  the  hotel  to-night,  and  maybe 
renting  the  Norris  house  to-morrow — " 

"That  tumble-down  shanty!" 

"I  couldn't  have  them  go  there.  I  know 
Clay  couldn't  bear  it;  and  I  told  Wait  I 
should  appeal  to  him  if  she  insisted.  And 
think  how  people  would  talk!" 

Nora  gave  a  cynical  snort  of  laughter.  "I 
believe,  mamma,  you  would  think  of  that 
if  you  were  dying.  Dying !  How  do  I  know 
Clay  may  not  go  raving  crazy,  and  kill  you 
or  Wait?  He  isn't  safe!" 

"Nora,  Wait  said,  'We  can't  do  anything 
but  put  our  trust  in  God;  though  He  slay 
me,  j'et  will  I  trust  Him!'  If  Wait  is  doing 
what  she  thinks  is  right,  God  will  not 
permit — " 

"  God  permitted  Bertie,  "  said  Nora, 
solemnly. 

Mrs.  Wilder  had  no  answer;  she  looked 
piteously  at  her  younger  daughter,  who 
seemed  changed,  all  the  gay  lightness  of 
her  nature  vanished. 

"Frank  is  right,"  Nora  went  on.  "We 
dare  not  assume  that  we  are  obeying  God 
when  we  are  wronging  our  fellow-beings. 

35 


A   SLAVE  TO   DUTY 

A  woman  may  have  a  right  to  sacrifice  her 
own  life ;  she  has  no  right  to  sacrifice  the 
lives  of  her  possible  children.  Bertie's  exist- 
ence is  a  crime.  It  is  a  crime  for  Wait  to 
return  to  that  man  now,  and  abandon 
•Bertie." 

"But  where  is  the  way  out?"  cried  Mrs. 
Wilder. 

"Frank  will  find  it,"  said  Nora,  con- 
fidently. 

At  this  moment  she  saw  Frank  at  the  gate, 
and  sank  back  in  her  chair  with  the  breath- 
less sensation  that  comes  when  one  perceives 
a  crisis  approach. 

Frank  opened  the  door  and  nodded  smil- 
ingly. 

"Frank,  Wait  wants  to  go  back  to  him," 
cried  Nora,  "and  mamma  insists  that  they 
shall  come  here!" 

"Whew!"  puffed  Frank,  "I'm  out  of 
breath.  Well,  I  guess  Wait  will  have  a  time 
finding  him,  that's  all.  Can't  anyone  get  a 
hard  working  and  walking  man  a  glass  of 
cool  beer  or  lemonade,  or  something?" 

Mrs.  Wilder  rose,  but  Nora  pushed  her 
into  a  chair.  "I'll  get  him  a  glass  of  water; 
36 


A   SLAVE  TO   DUTY 

that's  quite  enough  until  he  has  told  us. 
Frank,  tell  us  this  minute,  where 's  that 
man?" 

"More  than  I  know,  my  dear;  running 
still,  maybe.  Where's  Wait?" 

"Up-stairs. " 

"Tell  her  to  come  down.  No,  I'll  call  up 
to  her;  I'll  see  her,  myself." 

They  heard  him  run  lightly  up  the  stairs 
and  rap  on  the  door.  Then  he  ran  into  the 
room.  After  awhile  they  heard  him  coming 
down  the  stairs.  He  held  Bertie  in  his  arms ; 
his  face  was  stern. 

"Wait  has  taken  matters  into  her  own 
hands, ' '  said  he.  ' '  She  has  gone.  This  is 
a  note  from  her. ' ' 

He  handed  the  slip  of  paper  to  Mrs. 
Wilder,  whose  trembling  fingers  could  not 
unfold  it ;  she  gave  it  to  Nora.  Nora  read 
it  aloud: 

"I  cannot  sacrifice  you,  too.  I  am  going  to 
Clay.  I  must.  God  will  help  me  do  my  duty. ' ' 

The  Jeffries  station  was  built  before  the 
days  of  fanciful  architecture  and  parterres 
and  flower-beds.     It  was  a  dingy  barn  of  a 
37 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

place,  a  vast  blackened  roof  above  the  double 
tracks  which  shone  like  silver.  On  either 
side,  was  a  platform  where  the  trains  halted, 
a  mere  breathing-space,  and  passengers, 
previously  warned  by  the  agent,  made  a 
frantic  rush  to  clamber  on  the  steps.  There 
was  a  kind  of  cage  for  the  ticket-agent,  a 
dismal  baggage-room,  and  a  more  dismal 
waiting-room.  Week-days  the  waiting-room 
usually  had  a  tenant,  for  the  town  is  near 
enough  to  Boston  to  have  a  continual  rum- 
bling of  trains ;  but  Sunday  afternoon  there 
are  only  two  trains  to  Boston  direct,  and 
these  in  this  staid  little  village  are  scantily 
patronized.  Only  one  man,  Frank  Mallory, 
walked  up  and  down  the  platform  waiting  for 
some  one  or  something  this  Sunday  after- 
noon. The  agent  knew  him,  of  course,  and 
watched  him  with  the  hungry  curiosity  of  an 
active  man  with  leisure  on  his  hands.  Pres- 
ently, Rufus  Swift,  who  used  to  be  constable, 
but  was  now  a  private  detective  in  Boston, 
wafts  of  whose  fame  drifted  occasionally  to 
Jeffries,  walked  briskly  on  to  the  platform. 
The  agent  knew  that  Swift  had  come  up 
from  Boston  two  hours  previous.  And  he 
38 


A  SLAVE   TO  DUTY 

wondered  the  more  "what  that  rich  Chicago 
feller  wanted  with  Ruf e. ' ' 

His  interest  could  not  make  him  hear  the 
conversation,  however.  It  was  brief. 

"Did  you  find  her?"  said  Frank. 

"No,  Mr.  Mallory.  I  think  she  had  been 
to  the  house,  for  I  found  that  the  chairs 
were  moved  and  one  drawer  in  that  table 
pulled  out.  It  is  clear  he  had  appointed  that 
little  deserted  summer-house  as  a  meeting- 
place.  And  she  had  kept  the  appointment ; 
but  she  was  gone. ' ' 

"Could  he  possibly  have  got  any  word 
to  her  after  he  left  us?" 

"Well,  he  might  write  a  note  on  the  train, 
and  send  it  back  by  some  one.  He  had 
plenty  of  money,"  with  a  grim  smile,  "to 
pay  a  messenger.  And  he  might  do  it — just 
out  of  meanness,  to  spite  you." 

"In  that  case — which  is  quite  possible — 
what  would  he  be  likely  to  ask  of  her?  To 
join  him,  I  suppose." 

"That's  how  it  strikes  me,  too." 

"It  is  half-past  six.  If  she  wants  to  go 
to-night,  she  would  try  for  this  train,  don't 
you  think?" 

39 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

"I  do  think,  sir — and  there  she  comes 
down  the  hill !  I  can  see  her  coming  down 
the  hill.  If  we  stand  up  close  to  the  door 
she  can't  see  us,  not  till  she  steps  out  on 
the  platform." 

"She's  left  herself  ten  minutes.  She 
means  to  go. "  As  he  spoke,  Frank  flattened 
his  big  person  against  the  wall  of  the  wait- 
ing-room, outside,  and  Swift  followed  his 
example.  They  did  not  have  long  to  wait. 
There  was  a  light  footstep,  a  rustle  of  skirts, 
and  Mrs.  Bostwick  stepped  out  of  the  door. 
Frank  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Don't  scream,  Wait,"  said  he,  smiling. 
"The  agent  is  here,  and  he  might  hear  you. " 

Wait  did  not  scream,  but  she  turned  very 
pale.  "Do  you  need  to  make  it  so  hard  for 
me,  Frank?" 

"Of  course.  I'm  not  doing  this  for  fun, 
dear.  If  you'll  take  my  arm  and  walk  with 
me  I'll  explain  the  whole  affair." 

"I'd  rather  stay  here,  Frank." 

"As  you  please.  Don't  go,  Swift.  You 
remember  Mr.  Rufus  Swift,  Wait?" 

Even  in  the  strain  of  the  moment  Wait 
did  not  forget  her  sweet  courtesy ;  she  held 


A   SLAVE  TO   DUTY 

out  her  hand  to  Rufus,  saying  with  a  tremu- 
lous smile,  "I  hope  your  mother  is  well. 
We  have  heard  of  your  success  in  the 
papers. ' ' 

"Mother's  well,"  returned  Rufus,  bowing, 
and  with  a  wrath  at  Bostwick  struggling 
with  a  sense  of  delight  at  her  remembering 
his  "success"  at  such  a  time. 

"Swift  came  up  here  in  answer  to  a  tele- 
gram," said  Frank.  "Will  you  walk  a  little 
with  me?" 

This  time  Wait  did  not  refuse.  He  walked 
as  he  spoke,  not  looking  at  her. 

"Let  us  cut  this  short,  Wait.  You  mean 
to  go  to  Boston  to  join  Bostwick.  Well,  you 
can't  do  it.  Shall  I  tell  you  why?" 

"I  must  do  it,  Frank;  please  don't  make  it 
so  hard  for  me ! ' ' 

He  patted  the  hand  on  his  arm  with  a 
brusque  tenderness.  "How  you  tremble, 
poor  child !  I  believe  you  think  I  am  going 
to  hold  you  by  force.  I  would  if  there  were 
any  need  of  it.  But  there  isn't.  You  will 
not  want  to  go  after  you  hear  what  I  am 
going  to  tell  you.  That  is,  simply  that  your 
going  would  ruin  Bostwick.  It  would, 
41 


A  SLAVE  TO   DUTY 

because  Swift  and  I  would  go,  too,  and  follow 
you,  and  arrest  Bostwick. " 

4 'It  wasn't  murder;  you  can't  make  it  out 
murder — ' ' 

"We  don't  need  to  try.  We  couldn't,  at 
best,  get  more  than  a  manslaughter  verdict, 
and  we  have  something  else.  Please  turn. 
We  shall  arrest  Clay  Bostwick  for  stealing 
two  thousand  dollars  from  me  to-day.  We 
have  plenty  of  evidence  on  that.  Swift  saw 
him  take  it. ' ' 

Wait  turned  a  strange  entreaty  up  at  his 
face.  "You  are  not  telling  me — " 

"Here  is  Swift,"  said  Frank,  coolly. 
"Swift,  is  it  true  that  Mr.  Bostwick  stole 
two  thousand  dollars  of  me  in  the  summer- 
house  at  the  Norris  Place — took  it  out  of 
my  coat?" 

"Yes,  sir,  it  is  true.  I'll  go  before  any 
court  in  the  land  and  swear  it,"  said  Swift. 

"If  you  will  walk  a  little  way  with  me, 
I '11  explain,"  said  Frank,  gently;  "or  shall 
we  sit  on  this  bench?"  He  sat  down  beside 
her  and  in  an  even  voice  told  his  tale. 

"Of  course,  I  had  no  idea  of  letting  Bost- 
wick carry  you  off.  So  I  telegraphed  to 
42 


A  SLAVE  TO   DUTY 

Swift.  He  luckily  had  been  engaged  on 
some  business  of  mine,  and  came  up  at  a 
moment's  notice.  I  wanted  him  because 
Bostwick  would  remember  him  as  the  con- 
stable, and  might  not  know  of  Swift's  new 
pursuits.  I  had  him  rig  up  with  a  star.  It 
was  easy  enough  to  run  Bostwick  down ;  and 
when  I  dropped  a  hint  that  I  intended  to 
run  him  out  of  town,  I  knew  I  could  count 
on  every  man,  woman  and  child  in  Jeffries 
helping  me." 

"But  why — they  don't  know — "  The 
words  faltered  on  Wait's  lips. 

"Don't  deceive  yourself,  Wait,"  said 
Frank,  gravely.  "This  is  a  New  England 
village,  where  they  not  only  know  how  to 
use  their  eyes,  but  know  how  to  seem  not  to 
see.  They  know  everything.  Everything, 
Wait.  They  have  for  a  long  time.  So 
instead  of  your  coming  to  meet  him,  I  came ; 
and  I  assure  you  he  wasn't  a  little  bit  glad 
to  see  me,  either.  I  spoke  to  him  fair 
enough,  at  first.  I  told  him  I  was  willing 
to  pay  him  spot  cash  to  leave,  and  I  took  out 
the  money  that  I  had  had  the  cashier  get  me 
from  the  bank — taking  down  the  number  of 
43 


A  SLAVE  TO  DUTY 

the  notes,  by  the  way.  I  showed  him  I 
could  pay  him  if  he  would  once  for  all  clear 
out,  go  to  Australia,  or  anywhere  that  was 
far  enough.  I  admit  that  I  wasn't  mealy- 
mouthed  about  it,  and  let  him  see  that  I 
though  him  a  hound.  He  flew  into  a  passion. 
Then  I  whistled,  and  Swift  appeared  and 
arrested  him  for  murder.  He  tried  to  brazen 
it  out,  and  fell  back  on  what  you  had  told 
him.  'We'll  try  whether  that  is  right,'  says 
I.  'We're  sure  of  manslaughter,  anyhow, 
and  that  will  keep  you  in  prison  long  enough 
to  kill  you,  with  your  weak  lungs — '  ' ' 

"Oh,  Frank,  that  was — " 

"Brutal,  wasn't  it?  It  had  a  purpose;  to 
frighten  him.  And  it  succeeded.  He  said 
he  would  write  a  note  to  you,  telling  you 
that  he  would  never  come  back,  and  releas- 
ing you  entirely.  He  said  (with  a  sort  of 
leer)  that  he  could  write  something  that 
would  make  you  willing  to  give  him  up. 
So  I  threw  my  coat  down  on  the  bench  and 
was  bending  over  him,  watching  him,  when 
we  heard  a  scream,  and  then  another,  com- 
ing up  from  that  pond;  a  woman's  screams 
that  her  baby  would  drown.  I  called  to 
44 


A  SLAVE  TO  DUTY 

Swift  to  run  to  see,  while  I  guarded  the 
door.  The  screams  kept  up,  and  I  ran  a 
little  way — just  a  few  steps  to  see,  you 
know,  what  was  going  on.  But  that  was 
enough  for  him.  He  was  off,  out  the  other 
door  with  my  pocketbook. ' ' 

"But  the  woman — the  baby?" 

"Oh,  the  baby  was  all  right.  The  woman 
was  all  right." 

Wait  whirled  on  her  seat,  and  her  eyes 
dove  into  the  evasive  eyes  of  her  brother-in 
law.  "Frank,  why  didn't  you  run  out,  leav- 
ing Swift?" 

"I — I  wanted  to  guard  Bostwick. " 

"But  you  didn't  guard  him!" 

"Very  well,  perhaps  it  is  better  to  give  you 
the  truth  straight.  I  wanted  to  have  the  proof 
if  Bostwick  stole  that  money.  I  have  it." 

"Frank,  was  there  any  woman  or  any  baby 
in  the  water,  at  all?" 

Frank  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  see 
what  you  drive  a  poor  well-meaning  Western 
brother-in-law  into,  Wait,  with  your  slavish 
notions  of  duty.  I  have  to  pass  off  a  bogus 
policeman,  which  is  undoubtedly  against  the 
law,  and  I  have  to  tempt  a  rascal  into  theft ; 
45 


A   SLAVE  TO   DUTY 

now  don't  you  think  you  have  made  enough 
occasion  for  me  to  sin?  and  instead  of  throw- 
ing your  own  happiness  and  ours  away  to 
save  that  fellow,  suppose  you  let  up  a  little 
and  let  me  save  my  soul !  For  I  tell  you,  if 
you  follow  that  man,  I  will  follow  him,  too, 
and  I'll  send  him  to  the  penitentiary.  I  can 
and  I  will.  You  can  be  sure  he'll  not  thank 
you  for  following  him,  if  it  comes  to  that. 
Wait,  are  you  ready  to  come  home?" 

The  roar  of  the  approaching  train  filled 
the  air.  His  hand  was  on  her  arm. 

"Would  you  disgrace  us  all  by  doing  such 
an  awful  thing?"  she  breathed,  faintly. 
"Am  I  not  unhappy  enough  without  that 
brand — and  Bertie — " 

"If  I  can't  save  you  without  sending  that 
brute  to  the  pen,  I'll  send  him.  And  I'll 
send  him  to  the  gallows  just  as  readily.  As 
to  Bertie,  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  him 
is  to  have  his  father  utterly  effaced.  Did 
you  see  his  arm?" 

Wait  turned  away.  The  train  creaked  and 
groaned  and  tore  out  of  the  station.  The 
telegraph  wires  whined  overhead  under  the 
lash  of  its  wind. 

46 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

"Let  yourself  be  saved,  Wait,"  said  Frank, 
passing  his  arm  about  her.  "Dear  little 
sister,  there  is  no  other  way,  for  /won't  let 
you  be  lost ! ' ' 

The  village  coach  was  waiting.  The 
agent  related  to  his  eager  listeners  that  there 
was  nothing  different  that  he  could  see  in 
the  way  Mrs.  Bostwick  looked;  she  just 
walked  to  the  coach  with  Mr.  Mallory,  and 
Mallory  gave  the  boy  a  dollar  for  coming 
down  so  quick — and  that  was  the  only  queer 
thing  he  saw  happen.  As  for  Mr.  Swift,  he 
went  on  to  Boston. 

A  day  later,  however,  the  village  had 
another  sensation.  Wait  had  submitted  to 
be  put  to  bed.  She  had  sobbed  on  her 
mother's  shoulder,  and  confessed  the  relief 
that  she  could  not  resist;  and  Mrs.  Wilder 
had  heard  the  story  and  sighed  to  Frank, 
"I  know  you  are  acting  wrong,  Frank,  but  I 
can't  help  being  glad  you  were  here ! ' '  Wait 
was  up-stairs  now,  and  the  household  had 
subsided  into  its  customary  decorous  quiet. 
Betty  and  Liza  were  washing  the  early 
dinner  dishes  in  a  pleasantly  excited  frame 
of  mind.  Nora  sat  in  the  little  parlor  with 
47 


A   SLAVE   TO  DUTY 

Bertie  and  Frank.  Frank  was  smoking. 
Bertie,  as  usual,  nestled  close  to  him,  whit- 
tling at  his  boat.  All  at  once,  Bertie  glanced 
up  and  sank  back  with  a  cry  of  fright.  Nora 
lifted  her  eyes ;  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Frank,"  she  gasped,  "it's  Clay!" 

Frank,  too,  rose ;  and  as  he  rose  the  door 
opened,  and  not  waiting  for  a  ring,  but  quite 
as  in  the  times  when  he  was  living  in  the 
town,  Clay  Bostwick  walked  into  the  room. 
Behind  him  came  Mrs.  Wilder,  white  and 
trembling. 

"It's  you,  is  it?"  said  Frank.  Then  he 
beckoned  to  Mrs.  Wilder.  Any  one  could 
hear  his  undertone.  "Mother,  please  tele- 
phone for  a  policeman  and  Squire  Keats — " 

"Stop,"  said  Bostwick's  soft,  cleanly 
modulated  tones — he  had  a  beautiful  voice — 
"stop;  after  you  have  heard  what  I  have 
come  to  say,  perhaps  you  won't  care  to  call 
the  police  in  to  help  in  the  family  wash ! ' ' 

' ' I  have  no  objection  to  hearing  you, ' '  said 
Frank.  Nora  slipped  out  of  the  room. 

"First,  why  didn't  Wait  come  to  Boston, 
as  I  sent  her  word?" 

"Wait  has  had  better  council  than  yours,  " 
48 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

said  Frank.  "Wait's  done  with  you.  Is 
that  all  you  have  to  say  why  you  shan't  be 
arrested  for  stealing?" 

"Not  near — But  I  wish  you'd  get  me  a 
glass  of  wine  or  something — this  is  a  fright- 
ful climate;  I  always  hated  it."  He  sat 
down  on  the  sofa  and  leaned  back  his  head. 
He  did  look  ill  and  haggard.  But,  as  Mrs. 
Wilder  instantly  saw,  he  was  dressed  in  his 
old  lavish  style;  his  check  tweed  was  new 
and  of  the  latest  cut.  There  was  a  perfectly 
fitting  glove  on  one  hand,  and  on  the  other 
sparkled  a  diamond  ring. 

How  strange  is  the  power  of  custom! 
This  man  had  brought  her  the  most  cruel 
grief  of  her  life.  If  so  mild  a  soul  could 
hate,  she  hated  Clay  Bostwick;  yet  when 
she  saw  him  leaning  back  on  her  sofa,  just 
as  he  used  to  lean  when  he  was  in  the  house, 
addressing  her  in  the  old,  familiar,  petulant, 
appealing  tone,  she  could  not  resist  the 
impulse  to  serve  him  in  the  old  fashion. 
"You'll  do  better  without  wine,  Clay,"  she 
answered,  "but  I'll  bring  you  a  cup  of  hot 
coffee. ' ' 

He  smiled.      "You  always  were  a  dear, 

49 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

and  you  made  the  best  coffee  in  the  world. 
Yes,  do  fetch  me  some." 

4 'Well,"  said  Frank — Mrs.  Wilder  had 
pattered  out  of  the  room — "well,  come  to 
the  point!  What  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  that  two  thousand,"  said  Clay, 
pleasantly. 

"What  will  you  give  for  it?  You  know  I 
can  send  you  to  the  penitentiary.  It  was 
grand  larceny. ' ' 

"Oh,  drop  that,  you  don't  want  to  send 
me  to  the  penitentiary.  And  you  know 
Wait  has  been  using  my  money  for  two 
years;  and  she  has  sold  the  house — where's 
that  money?" 

"You  can  have  a  lawyer  inquire.  You 
will  have  plenty  of  leisure,  for  I'm  going  to 
telephone,  now.  That  was  my  money  you 
took,  and  not  Wait's — " 

"But  see  here;  don't  get  up.  I  want  that 
money  and — I  don't  want  Wait!  Now,  will 
you  sit  down  and  listen  to  me?" 

"You  were  of  another  mind,  yesterday." 

"I  was  ill,  yesterday;  beastly  ill;  thought 
I  was  going  to  die.  Quarreled — never  mind, 
I  came  out  here  on  an  impulse.  You  danced 
50 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

your  cursed  money  before  my  eyes,  and  I 
had  the  impulse  to  teach  you  a  lesson.  I 
swiped  it  and  made  off.  On  the  train  I  sent 
a  message  to  Wait.  She  was  going  to  meet 
me  in  the  summer-house.  I  sent  the  mess- 
age there.  Told  her  to  join  me  in  Boston. 
She  wouldn't.  Very  well,  there  are  others! 
I  thought  to  myself,  'What  a  fool  you  are ! 
that  Chicago  pig  wouldn't  mind  sending  you 
to  prison — '  ' ' 

"Not  a  rap,"  interrupted  Frank.  "You 
read  me  correctly." 

"Wait  wouldn't  come  to  me  when  I 
needed  her.  All  right,  I  don't  care;  she's 
a  tedious,  mewling  prig,  anyhow.  Say, 
what  do  you  say  to  letting  me  go  if  I'll  give 
you  a  confession  that  I  won't  have  Wait, 
and  want  her  to  get  a  divorce?  I  do.  I  can 
marry — there's  the  coffee." 

He  drank  the  coffee,  and  thanked  Mrs. 
Wilder.  Then,  disregarding  her  presence, 
he  looked  up  at  Frank.  "How's  that?" 

"I  can  assure  you  Wait  doesn't  want  any- 
thing to  do  with  you,  now  or  ever,"  said 
Frank.  "She  loathes  you.  And  at  the 
same  time  she  does  not  want  to  touch  your 
51 


A   SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

money.  So  soon  as  your  creditors  are  paid 
— and  that  will  be  pretty  soon,  for  the  house 
and  furniture  all  went  to  them — so  soon  as 
that,  two  thousand  a  year  will  be  paid  to  an 
Australian  banking-house  to  you,  in  person. 
Kindly  notice  the  last  words.  They  mean 
you  have  to  go  for  things  yourself — or  send 
a  physician's  certificate.  You'll  sign  the 
papers  I  have  drawn  up  and  had  ready  for 
you  if  you  ever  turned  up." 

He  drew  something  out  of  his  pocket  and 
spread  the  paper  on  the  table.  "It's  that  or 
the  constable, ' '  said  he. 

Clay  signed  without  a  word.  In  turn,  he 
pushed  a  little  bundle  over  to  Frank.  "That 
will  give  Wait  her  divorce  any  time,"  he 
sneered.  "I'll  bid  you  good-morning.  And 
you,  Mrs.  Wilder."  He  made  a  barely  per- 
ceptible pause  to  look  at  her,  before  he  said, 
"I  don't  suppose  you'll  have  very  pleasant 
memories  of  me ;  but  you  were  good  to  me, 
and  I  know  you're  a  good  woman.  So's 
Wait.  She  was  too  good.  If  she  had  been 
a  little  less  submissive  it  would  have  been 
better  for  both  of  us."  He  took  a  step 
toward  the  door,  but  midway  paused  again, 
52 


A   SLAVE   TO    DUTY 

this  time  before  Bertie,  who  had  cowered 
against  Frank,  not  making  a  sound.  "I 
always  hated  him,"  he  said  to  Frank. 
"You  can  guess  why."  Frank  nodded. 
"Poor  beggar,  you've  a  hard  row  before  you, 
and  that's  a  fact.  Here,  it's  a  pity  you 
shouldn't  have  one  present  from  your  dad. 
Catch!"  The  diamond  blazed  as  it  whirled 
and  circled  through  the  air.  Bertie  caught 
it,  and  his  heavy  face  reddened  with  pleasure. 

Clay  looked  at  him ;  and  suddenly  in  one 
of  the  quick  revulsions  of  his  unstable  tem- 
perament, his  fine  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
He  shook  the  hair  from  his  brow  and  laughed 
bitterly.  "If  I  send  you  a  picture  will  you 
buy  it  at  a  fair  price?"  he  asked  Frank. 

"  If  it  is  a  good  one,  and  I  like  it, ' '  said 
Frank. 

He  laughed  again,  and  stepped  lightly  out 
of  the  room.  They  saw  him  for  a  second, 
as  he  passed  the  house.  They  never  saw 
him  again. 

Mrs.  Wilder  drew  a  long  sigh.  "Poor 
Clay,"  she  said. 

"And  will  Wait  say  the  same?"  said  Frank, 
a  little  puzzled,  not  quite  pleased. 
53 


A  SLAVE   TO   DUTY 

"I  don't  know.  Yes.  But  we  shall  both 
be  thankful.  Oh,  Frank,  what  should  we 
have  done  without  you?" 

"In  spite  of  my  lack  of  principle?" 

"I  am  afraid."  said  Mrs.  Wilder,  "it's 
awful  to  think  of  it  that  a  lack  of  principle 
should  be  so  helpful — but  perhaps  it  was 
ordered  that  so  we  should  be  saved. ' ' 

"It  might  be  a  good  thing  if  more  slaves 
to  duty  had  their  chains  broken  by  force," 
said  Frank.  "Where's  Wait." 

Wait  sat  at  her  window.  She  had  seen 
Clay  come  in ;  she  saw  him  go  out.  As  his 
hand  was  on  the  gate  he  turned  his  head  and 
met  her  eyes.  Something  in  them,  appeal- 
ing, solemn,  held  his  own  gaze  a  moment. 
Then,  without  speaking,  he  lifted  his  hat, 
as  he  might  have  lifted  it  at  a  funeral, 
bowed,  and  turned  away. 

She  watched  him  out  of  sight.  Then  she 
kneeled  down  as  she  had  kneeled  the  day 
before — but  with  what  different  thoughts  in 
her  heart ! 

Nora,  outside,  softly  turned  a  key  in  the 
iock,  took  it  out  and  stole  away,  smiling. 


54 


A   Colonial   Dame 


THE  Bowler  block  fronted  a  side  street 
down-town.    There  was  a  bakery  in  the 
lower  story,    right-hand    corner,    and 
the  baker's  family  lived  above.     Two  dress- 
makers, a  dyer  and  a  seamstress  occupied 
the  other  rooms  in  the  two  stories  over  the 
bakery. 

The  bakery  had  a  local  renown  for  its 
cream  puffs  and  a  very  white,  delicious 
bread,  the  secret  of  which  the  baker  guarded 
vigilantly.  When  any  of  the  people  of 
the  town  gave  large  companies,  the  bread 
for  sandwiches  (which,  as  every  one  knows, 
forms  an  important  part  of  "party  refresh- 
ments" in  a  provincial  town)  was  always 
bought  from  Brandt.  He  had  a  neat  slicing 
machine  that  saved  the  hostess  no  end  of 
trouble.  Besides  the  bread  and  fancy  cakes, 
he  was  the  author  of  a  very  respectable  pate", 
the  contents  of  which  could  be  varied  at  will. 

55 


A  COLONIAL   DAME 

The  Cravens  were  valued  customers  of 
Brandt's,  and  the  Craven  carriage  was  a 
Frequent  sight  in  the  street.  But  Mrs. 
Graven  came  oftener  to  see  her  old  friend 
m  the  third  floor  than  to  buy  of  the  baker. 

One  day  last  June,  when  the  smell  of 
violets  and  heliotrope  was  in  the  air,  from 
Miss  Arnold's  little  window  garden,  the 
Graven  horses  jingled  their  silver  chains 
aefore  the  curbstone,  and  a  comely,  stout 
lady  followed  a  slender  young  girl  from  the 
[andau.  The  young  girl  stepped  back  into 
:he  carriage,  but  the  stout  lady  crossed  to  a 
side  door  and  toiled  up  the  narrow  inside 
stairs. 

"Mrs.  Craven  is  calling  on  Miss  Arnold," 
»aid  the  neighbors.  Miss  Arnold  (Miss 
ferusha  W.  Arnold,  read  the  card  on  her 
lall  door)  was  a  seamstress.  She  could  build 
jowns,  also ;  but  while  her  needlework  was 
exquisite,  her  critics  said  that  she  had  no 
deas.  She  did  not  "keep  up  with  the 
•tyles,"  and  more  enterprising  or  more 
>retentious  dressmakers  left  her  behind. 
But  she  retained  a  sound  clientage  of  a  few 
wealthy  families,  where  she  had  her  regular 

56 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

engagements  for  spring  and  autumn;  and 
there  was,  besides,  a  modest  little  property 
which  had  been  judiciously  invested  by  the 
"Craven  boys,"  and  Miss  Arnold  was 
esteemed  a  wealthy  lady,  in  the  block. 

The  Cravens  (who  were  very  great  people 
in  the  town)  were  not  only  friends;  there 
was,  so  the  gossips  related,  a  second  or  third 
cousinship.  In  fact,  Mrs.  Craven  always 
spoke  of  her  as  "Cousin  Jerry."  The 
children  had  used  so  to  address  her.  They 
might  address  her  so  now,  but  they  had  ceased 
to  speak  of  her  as  "Cousin  Jerry."  Mrs. 
Craven,  however,  kept  up  the  intimacy  of 
her  girlhood.  I  suppose  it  is  no  secret  that 
the  before -mentioned  property  was  a  bequest 
of  Mr.  Craven ;  at  least,  he  told  Mrs.  Craven 
that  he  wanted  her  to  remember  Jerry,  and 
Mrs.  Craven  had  remembered  Jerry  liber- 
ally. Therefore,  the  stairs  were  no  new 
journey  to  Mrs.  Craven.  To-day,  however, 
she  struggled  up  them  with  an  unusual 
expression  of  anxiety  and  distress  on  her 
kind  face. 

"I  know  it'll  slip  out  some  way,"  she 
panted,  "and  I  don't  know  but  I'd  rather  it 

57 


A  COLONIAL   DAME 

would.  Oh,  I  wish  their  father  was  alive; 
he  wouldn't  let  the  girls  do  so,  I  know." 

The  speech  ended  in  a  heavy  sigh  and 
a  rap  on  Miss  Arnold's  door.  Instantly  it 
was  opened  by  the  seamstress  herself.  She 
looked  like  a  caricature  of  a  New  England 
spinster,  being  very  tail,  very  thin,  very 
straight  and  very  plain.  It  was  a  question 
whether  her  Roman  nose,  her  prominent 
teeth,  or  a  slight  cast  in  her  left  eye  ought 
to  have  the  most  credit  for  this  plainness. 
Plain — singularly,  even  grotesquely  plain — 
she  certainly  was;  yet  to  her  old  friend 
Ellen  Craven's  eyes  she  was  attractive.  Her 
hair  was  thin  and  straight  and  gray,  but  it 
was  silky  fine,  her  skin  was  delicately  fair, 
and  the  large  teeth  were  flashing  white. 

"Why,  land's  sake,  Ellie!  is  it  you?"  she 
exclaimed,  as  she  drew  Mrs.  Craven  into  the 
parlor  and  the  coolest  rattan  chair.  It  was 
a  tiny  little  parlor,  the  furniture  of  which 
tried  the  taste  of  the  Craven  girls,  but  which, 
when  they  were  children,  they  had  dearly 
loved.  There  was  an  old-fashioned  black 
haircloth  sofa  that  Miss  Arnold's  mother 
had  when  she  was  married.  There  was  a 
58 


A  COLONIAL   DAME 

rosewood  cabinet  with  shells  and  ivory 
boxes  and  sandalwood  and  stuffed  birds,  that 
an  old  uncle  had  brought  back  from  over 
the  seas.  And  in  the  center  of  the  room 
stood  the  marble-topped  table  that  held  a 
plush  photograph  album,  N.  P.  Willis' 
poems  in  red  and  gilt  morocco,  and  a  small 
crayon  portrait  of  a  young  soldier  in  the 
clumsy  private's  blouse  and  huge  trousers 
of  the  early  sixties.  The  children  used  to 
view  this  photograph  with  awe,  and  be  told 
that  it  was  the  picture  of  a  brave  man  who 
had  died  for  his  country.  After  a  while  their 
mother  told  them  that  it  was  Cousin  Jerry's 
betrothed.  She  called  him  "Cousin  Jerry's 
beau,"  because  she  was  not  a  person  of 
elegant  education  like  her  daughters.  The 
picture  faced  Mrs.  Craven  as  she  sat  opposite 
the  table  fanning  herself  with  a  paper 
pattern  conveniently  near.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  the  dead  soldier  reproached  her. 
She  shifted  her  position. 

"Why,  you're  all  beat  out,  Ellie!"  said 
Miss  Arnold,  tenderly. 

Now  that  Timothy  Craven  was  dead,  she 
was  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  called 
59 


A  COLONIAL   DAME 

Mrs.  Craven  "Ellie."  The  Craven  girls 
winced  at  the  diminutive,  which  truly  did 
not  seem  appropriate  to  Mrs.  Craven's 
presence.  Ellen,  the  older  girl,  said  that 
it  was  "ridiculous. "  But  Mrs.  Craven  never 
heard  it  without  a  moving  of  the  heart.  It 
affected  her  painfully  to-day. 

"You've  been  working  too  hard,  that's 
what's  the  matter,  gittin'  ready  for  Gertie's 
young  man.  I  hear  he's  coming  to-morrow. 
I'm  so  anxious  to  see  him!" 

"He  ain't  going  to  stay  very  long,"  said 
Mrs.  Craven. 

"He'll  stay  to  the  party,  won't  he?" 

Mrs.  Craven's  blushes  came  readily  still, 
in  spite  of  her  fifty-odd  years.  She  flushed 
now,  and  conscious  that  her  color  was 
heightened,  fanned  more  rapidly.  Miss 
Arnold  was  eyeing  her  with  a  keenness  not  to 
be  expected  of  her  mild  visage  and  almost 
timid  demeanor;  but  under  her  shyness 
Jerusha  Arnold  concealed,  or  rather,  it 
would  be  fairer  to  say  contained  (since  she 
was  not  conscious  of  any  disguisement)  a  very 
shrewd  gift  of  observation.  And  she  had  not 
sewed  in  private  families,  and  often  seen  the 
60 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

feet  of  the  skeleton  when  the  closet  door  was 
ajar,  without  picking  up  some  worldly  wis- 
dom. 

"I  suppose  you  heard  from  Mrs  Brandt 
about  the  party, ' '  said  Mrs.  Craven,  holding 
the  paper  pattern  higher.  "No,  I  don't 
need  a  fan,  Jerry.  It  ain't  much  of  a  party 
— a  lawn  party,  the  girls  call  it.  For  Tim's 
wife.  She'll  find  it  pleasanter,  being  intro- 
duced to  a  good  many  at  once.  And  I  feel 
grateful  to  her,  being  willing  to  live  here 
after  all  the  attention  she's  had." 

"But  Tim's  business  is  here.  She  don't 
expect  you  to  move  the  factory  to  Chicago 
or  Boston,  so's  she  can  go  to  parties,  does 
she?" 

"Of  course  not;  but  I'm  afraid  she'll  feel 
the  change.  Coming  West,  too!" 

"I  guess  we  won't  eat  her!  But  there,  I 
don't  show  any  justice  to  the  girl.  She's 
pretty  as  a  picture,  riding  by  in  Tim's  new 
surrey;  but  I  did  expect  to  see  more  of 
Tim's  wife  than  jest  riding  by  in  her 
carriage.  And  I  did  feel  awful  cut  up,  and 
that's  the  fact,  when  I  gave  up  an  afternoon 
only  to  go  and  call  on  her,  and  a  mincing 
61 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

little  girl  with  a  cap,  told  me  that  Mrs. 
Craven  was  very  much  engaged,  and  begged 
to  be  excused, " 

"It  was  her  Dante  lesson;  she  never  lets 
anything  interrupt  that,  and  the  girl  said  the 
same  to  everybody. " 

"I  guess  it  won't  kill  me,  but  it — it  hurts, 
Ellie,  to  have  Tim's  wife  making  a  stranger 
of  me.  There,  I  feel  better,  now  I  have 
talked  it  out!  But  I  hope  Gertie's  young 
man  will  not  be  so  proud.  I  haven't  really 
had  a  chance  to  talk  with  Gertie  since  she 
came  back  from  the  East,  engaged  to  him. 
I  can't  quite  realize  it,  our  Gertie  being 
engaged  to  be  married.  He's  a  fine-appear- 
ing young  man — in  his  picture  she  showed 
me." 

Mrs.  Craven  considered  Reginald  rather 
plain,  although  she  stood  in  awe  of  him 
because  Mrs.  Tim  mentioned  him  with 
respect.  "He's  considerable  freckled, "  she 
answered,  dubiously,  "and  his  nose  being 
broken  at  football  makes  his  face  not  so — 
well,  not  exactly  handsome;  but  he's  of  fine 
family,  connected  with  the  Winthrops. 
Hazel's  his  cousin.  Johnny  says  he's  a  very 
62 


A    COLONIAL   DAME 

nice  fellow,  with  no  nonsense  about  him.  He 
was  at  Harvard  with  Johnny,  only  in  a  higher 
class,  of  course.  He's  very  s — clever." 

"Oh,  you  can  call  it  smart  when  you're 
with  me,  Ellie,"  said  Miss  Arnold,  dryly;  "I 
don't  see  why  it  ain't  just  as  good  a  word. 
Well,  I  hope  he'll  make  Gertie  happy,  that's 
all;  and  I  guess  he  will.  I  suppose  they — 
they're  very  much  in  love?" 

Mrs.  Craven  nodded  and  sighed. 

"Well,  we  know  what  it  is,  Ellie;  we've 
had  our  day,  "  said  the  other  elderly  woman. 
And  she  leaned  over  and  gently  patted  Mrs. 
Craven's  gloved  hand.  The  tears  rose  to 
the  matron's  eyes.  "There,  there,  Ellie!  I'm 
a  fool,  making  you  feel  bad !  Let's  talk  about 
the  party.  Shan't  I  come  and  fix  the  flowers?" 

Miss  Arnold  had  a  gift  for  plants.  Plain  and 
simple  as  she  seemed,  her  floral  effects  showed 
a  magic  touch  envied  by  professional  florists. 
Yet  the  offer  brought  another  and  a  deeper 
flush  to  her  friend's  kind,  anxious  face. 

"You're  just   as  good    as    you    can    be, 
Jerry,"   she  cried,  affectionately,  "but  I'm 
ashamed  to  ask  you,  for — for  the  invitations 
ain't  very  general,  and — and — " 
63 


A  COLONIAL  DAME 

"And  you  ain't  going  to  invite  me,  you 
mean?"  said  Miss  Arnold,  quietly,  but  her 
own  color  had  turned. 

The  tears  in  Mrs.  Craven's  eyes  rolled 
down  her  cheeks;  she  choked,  trying  to 
answer.  Suddenly,  Miss  Arnold  put  one  arm 
protectingly  around  the  palpitating,  plump 
shoulder. 

"There,  Ellie,  don't  go  to  feeling  bad;  7 
know  you  want  me;  only  tell  me  one  thing, 
was — was  it  Gertie  that  asked  you  not  to 
have  me?" 

"No,  it  wasn't,"  Mrs.  Craven  cried, 
regaining  a  little  voice;  "it  was  Tim's  wife. 
She — of  course,  she  doesn't  know  you,  dear, 
and  she  has  so  many  social  prejudices."  A 
queer  smile  stole  over  Miss  Arnold's  face 
while  Mrs.  Craven  continued:  "She  comes 
of  a  high  family,  you  know,  and  she  thinks 
so  much  of  being  a  gentlewoman,  as  she 
calls  it,  and  she's  a  Colonial  Dame,  and  so  I 
guess  she  thinks  she  has  to  be  particular.  I 
told  her  how  we'd  been  bosom  friends  for 
thirty  years,  and  no  sister  could  be  kinder 
or  more  devoted;  but  she  didn't  understand. 
And  afterward,  when  I  talked  to  the  girls, 
64 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

they  said  they  knew  Hazel  would  never  get 
over  it.  She's  New  England,  and  hoards  up 
things.  And  though  they  felt  awful  not  to 
ask  you  (Miss  Arnold's  lip  curled  a  little, 
bitterly),  Ellen  thought  we  ought  to  humor 
Tim's  wife,  who  is  strange,  and  I  guess 
awful  homesick,  and — well,  I  gave  in,  Jerry; 
I  couldn't  bear  to  contrary  Ellen,  and  Tim's 
wife,  too." 

"Never  you  mind,  never  you  mind,  Ellie; 
I  know  we  love  each  other,  and  you  don't 
need  to  be  afraid  I'll  shame  you  before  your 
grand  friends.  I'll  come  and  fix  the  flowers 
for  you,  and  then  I'll  go  home." 

"And  you'll  come  up  to  dinner  to-morrow, 
Jerry,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Craven. 

"I  guess  not,  to-morrow ;  I've  got  a  good 
many  things  on  hand. ' ' 

Mrs.  Craven'  begged  in  vain ;  this  one  little 
solace  of  a  wounded  spirit  Miss  Arnold 
could  not  deny  herself.  Finally  Mrs.  Craven 
left  her,  comforted,  but  still  heavy-hearted. 
And  after  she  had  gone,  the  seamstress  sat 
down  and  cried. 

The  humblest  of  us  have  our  little 
audience,  whose  approbation  is  as  the  breath 
65 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

of  our  nostrils.  Miss  Jerry  had  lived  in  the 
block  for  ten  years ;  they  all  knew  her — her 
punctual  payments  and  her  charities,  which 
were  not  small,  either,  in  comparison  to  her 
income,  or  in  the  eyes  of  the  recipients. 
The  Craven  friendship  was  her  mark  of 
distinction  with  her  neighbors.  She  was  a 
great  personage  to  them,  although  she  might 
be  only  Miss  Arnold,  the  seamstress,  to  the 
town  in  general.  When  she  donned  her  one 
black  silk,  rich  and  good,  the  gift  of  Mrs.  Cra- 
ven, and  pinned  on  a  bit  of  real  lace,  from 
Ellen,  with  the  pretty  brooch  that  Gertie  gave 
her,  and  the  Craven  carriage  was  sent  to 
convey  her  to  a  Craven  function,  the  build- 
ing was  agitated ;  the  tenants  all  felt  that 
they  were  touching  the  edge  of  fashion. 
They  talked  about  it  to  their  neighbors,  and 
Mrs.  Brandt,  the  baker's  wife,  always  came 
up  next  evening,  when  Miss  Arnold  returned 
from  her  day's  work,  with  a  steaming  cup  of 
coffee  and  some  fresh  rolls  hot  from  the 
oven,  to  learn  the  details  of  the  toilets,  and 
how  Brandt's  own  contributions  to  the  menu 
were  received. 

Now,  poor  Miss  Arnold  could  not    but 
66 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

imagine  the  questions,  "I  suppose  you  are 
going  to  the  Cravens'  great  party?  No? 
Why  not?"  And  Jerusha  Arnold,  who  came 
of  Puritan  stock,  could  not  find  it  in  her 
conscience  to  utter  a  falsehood.  With  a 
corroded  heart  she  would  have  to  answer 
that  she  had  not  received  an  invitation; 
further — but  her  imagination  recoiled.  Not 
only  was  her  harmless  vanity  wounded,  but 
her  tears  welled  from  a  deeper  source.  The 
awkward  soldier  on  the  table  was  Miss 
Jerry's  only  lover,  and  Ellen  Craven  was 
her  only  dear  friend.  They  had  been  friends 
for  so  many,  many  years ;  two  little  girls  in 
school,  two  apprentices  in  the  dress-making 
shop,  now  two  women  growing  old.  Both 
had  been  orphans. 

In  the  early,  days  Jerusha  was  the  stronger 
of  the  two.  They  opened  a  little  shop 
together,  and  it  was  then  that  the  young 
superintendent  of  the  wagon  works  met  and 
loved  pretty  Ellen  Pratt.  He  married  her, 
and  he  never  regretted  his  choice  of  a  wife, 
although,  perhaps,  as  his  wealth  and  impor- 
tance grew,  other  people  wondered  a  little 
that  he  had  not  married  a  woman  of  wider 
67 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

education.  But  Ellen  Craven  was  of  so 
gentle,  sunny,  unselfish  a  disposition  that 
every  one,  even  her  own  highly  educated 
children,  forgave  her  the  lapses  of  her 
tongue  and  manner. 

Certainly  Timothy  Craven  was  not  the 
man  to  undervalue  his  wife's  good  quali- 
ties. He  laughed  at  her  humility  and  her 
painstaking,  futile  efforts  to  raise  the  girls' 
standard.  When  he  discovered  her  secretly 
taking  Delsarte  lessons,  he  roared. 

"And  what  for?"  said  he.  "Is  that  why 
I  found  you  the  other  day  hopping  on  one 
foot  and  swinging  your  arms  like  a  distracted 
windmill?  At  your  age,  Nell!" 

"Tim,  I  know  the  exercises  look  queer, 
but  they  give  you  great  grace,  the  teacher 
says,  and  they  make  you  very  much  less 
fleshy — stout — ' ' 

"Old  lady,"  said  Timothy  Craven,  "you're 
quite  graceful  enough  for  me,  and  I  love 
every  pound  of  you.  Don't  you  let  the  girls 
bully  you  into  frills!"  And  even  when  he 
lay  dying,  Craven  said  to  her,  faintly, 
"Nell,  I've  left  you  everything;  I  know  you 
will  do  the  best  you  can  for  the  children, 

68 


A  COLONIAL   DAME 

start  the  boys  in  business,  and  marry  the 
girls  off  if  they  see  the  right  kind  of  fellow ; 
but — don't  you  let  them  bully  you!" 

Timothy  had  been  a  kind  friend  to  Jerusha 
Arnold,  always  warm  in  her  praise  ever  since 
the  bad  diphtheria  time,  when  the  two  boys 
and  Gertie  fell  ill  and  Tim  nearly  died. 
Not  a  nurse  could  be  had  for  love  or  money ; 
and  Jerry  had  watched  night  and  day.  As 
for  Jerry,  she  loved  all  her  friends'  children ; 
but  her  soul  clave  to  Gertie.  Had  she  not 
come  before  the  doctor  and  before  the  nurse, 
when  Gertie  was  born?  And  had  she  not 
held  Gertie  on  her  shoulder  the  dreadful 
night  through,  when  they  thought  Tim  was 
dying,  and  the  mother  was  with  him?  Her 
little  fortune,  after  bequests  in  charity,  was 
left  to  Gertrude  Jerusha  Arnold  Craven,  "in 
remembrance  of  many  kindnesses  showed 
to  her  old  friend."  So  her  will  ran;  and 
she  often  took  it  out  and  read  it  with 
satisfaction.  But  since  Gertie  went  to  the 
boarding  school  in  Boston,  and  since  the 
Craven  boys  had  so  increased  the  Craven 
fortune,  although  the  boys  were  just  the 
same,  and  called  her  "Cousin  Jerry"  and 
69 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

sent  her  costly  Christmas  gifts,  the  girls, 
she  fancied,  were  changed. 

A  chill  that  could  not  be  analyzed,  but 
could  be  felt,  was  in  the  air.  How  should 
Gertie  know  the  way  in  which  the  heart  of 
a  childless  woman  yearned  over  her?  She 
could  not  see,  in  the  old  cabinet,  the  bundle 
of  papers  stored  away  with  her  mother's  and 
the  dead  soldier's;  and  once  when  she  did 
catch  a  glimpse  of  them  by  chance,  how  was 
she  to  guess  that  they  were  her  own  childish 
letters,  written  when  they  were  away  sum- 
mers, to  her  "deer  Cousin  Jery,"  and  the 
later  and  rarer  letters  of  her  youth. 

"I  guess  it's  natural,"  said  the  desolate 
woman.  "Children  don't  notice  that  you're 
queer  and  old  and  poor;  they  only  notice 
you  love  'em ;  but  when  they  grow  up  they 
know.  I  dont  want  to  shame  her  before  her 
beau.  Yes,  I  expect  it's  natural;  but,  oh, 
Lord,  it  hurts!" 

Yet  it  was  not  with  Gertie's  consent,  that 
the  slight  had  been  given;  and  she  drove 
away  from  Jerry's  door  with  a  clouded  face. 
Ellen  saw  things  differently.  "I  do  hope 
that  Miss  Jerry  won't  be  persuading  mamma 
70 


A  COLONIAL  DAME 

to  invite  her  to  the  reception,"  she  began. 

Gertie,  a  pretty  girl,  who  looked  more 
like  her  dark-eyed,  thin  father  than  her  fair, 
mild  mother,  turned  her  brilliant  eyes  for  a 
moment  on  Ellen's  frown. 

"Cousin  Jerry  is  not  likely  to  persuade 
mamma  or  any  one  else  to  invite  her  to  any- 
thing!" she  said,  coldly. 

"Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean.  She'll  seem 
cut  up,  and  mamma  will  cry  and  beg  her  to 
come.  'I  don't  know  what  on  earth  I  shall 
say  to  Jerry,'  says  mamma,  the  dear,  soft- 
hearted thing.  I  told  her  to  say  nothing 
about  the  party  at  all.  If  she  speaks  she's 
lost,  /didn't  want  her  to  get  the  things  at 
Brandt's.  We  could  have  sent  to  Chicago 
perfectly  well;  then  she  wouldn't  have 
heard  it  until  it  was  all  over  with.  It  was 
your  fault,  Gertrude — you  would  go  there!" 

"I  think  we  mortified  poor  Cousin  Jerry 
enough  without  taking  our  trade  away  from 
the  Brandt's,"  said  Gertie.  "I  wish  we 
hadn't  given  in  to  Hazel.  Ellen,  it  strikes 
me  we  were  snobs." 

"Perhaps  you  think  Hazel  is  a  snob,  .too?" 

"No,"  said  Gertie,  slowly,  "I  think  Hazel 
71 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

is  a  fine  young  creature,  but  she  is  narrow, 
awfully  narrow.  It  isn't  Hazel  I  am  angry 
at,  it's  myself.  I'm  furious  at  myself!  I 
know  my  mother  is  worth  a  hundred  of  the 
fine  people  I  met  East,  yet  I  find  myself 
growing  hot  when  I  hear  her  talking  about 
being  '  plenty  >  warm',  and  when  she  insists 
on  pressing  everything  twice  on  the  guests 
at  a  dinner,  and — oh,  you  know.  You," 
cried  Gertie,  in  a  burst  of  scorn,  "are  no 
better  than  I,  and  you  didn't  even  stand  up 
for  poor,  kind  Cousin  Jerry  in  the  half- 
hearted way  I  did ;  but  I  declare  I — I  shall 
carry  Reggy  to  see  her!" 

Ellen  laughed,  albeit  with  a  rather  shame- 
faced air. 

"No,  you  won't,"  said  she,  "you  daren't! 
And  I  daren't  have  her  at  the  party.  You 
are  afraid  of  Reginald,  and  I  am  afraid  of 
Mrs.  Allen  Masters." 

Gertie  did  not  answer  for  a  while ;  she  was 
redder  than  before,  and  seemed  absorbed  in 
thought.  The  landau  bowled  smoothly 
along  the  brick  paving,  past  the  new,  tall 
shops  and  the  rounded  windows  of  the  better 
streets  which  they  were  entering.  Suddenly 
72 


A  COLONIAL  DAME 

Gertie  opened  her  lips  to  speak.  What  she 
would  have  said  was:  "Once  Cousin  Jerry 
gave  me  a  ridiculously  expensive  present, 
that  doll, when  I  was  ten;  and  I  overheard 
mamma  say,  'Why,  Jerry,  how  could  you!' 
and  she  answered,  'Don't  scold  me,  Ellie; 
you  and  the  children  are  all  I  have ! '  If  we 
are  all  she  has,  and  we  cast  her  off  as  not  fine 
enough  for  our  friends,  how  will  she  feel?" 
But  this  was  never  said,  because  at  this 
instant  Ellen  spoke,  pursuing  her  own  train 
of  thought.  "Mrs.  Masters  met  me  on  the 
street  this  morning,  and  asked  me  if  our 
papers  for  the  Colonial  Dames  were  ready 
yet;  she  said  she  had  sent  hers  and  six  other 
papers,  and  she  wanted  ours,  because  the 
applications  were  coming  so  fast,  and  she 
wanted  us  to  be  among  the  charter  mem- 
bers." 

"She's  an  old  cat!"  said  Gertie. 

"I  believe  she  is,"  sighed  Ellen;  "and  I 
believe  you  were  right,  and  she  only  asked 
us  to  join  the  Colonial  Dames  because  she 
thought  we  couldn't  get  in,  and  after  we  had 
committed  ourselves  and  everybody  knew — 
for  she  had  spread  it  far  and  wide  we  were 

73 


A  COLONIAL  DAME 

trying  to  join — it  would  be  humiliating  to 
fail." 

"You  can  trust  her  for  spreading  it  farther 
and  wider,"  said  Gertie,  "that  the  poor 
Cravens  feel  so  cut  up ;  they  wanted  to  join 
the  Colonial  Dames,  and  they  couldn't  find 
an  ancestor.  What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said  you  were  looking  up  the  genea- 
logical tree,  and  you  would  tell  her." 

"Much  I've  found,"  said  Gertie,  gloomily; 
"two  solid  nightmare  weeks  have  I  spent 
rummaging  the  New  England  genealogical 
register,  until  I  dream  of  'Early  Marriages 
and  Deaths  in  Sudbury,'  and  'Genealogical 
Gleanings  in  old  Braintree, '  and  inscriptions 
on  porch  doors ;  and  for  two  months  I  have 
been  writing  people;  and  the  only  public 
thing  that  I  can  find  any  of  our  ancestors 
ever  did  was  to  hang  a  witch,  and  bring  in 
a  bill  for  five  shillings  for  doing  it — 
and  that  isn't  gratifying  to  the  family 
pride — " 

"If  he'd  only  been  hanged  for  witchcraft 
himself?"  suggested  Ellen. 

"But  he  wasn't;  he  hanged  the  other. 
There  was  a  certain  Gregory  Craven  who 
74 


A  COLONIAL   DAME 

looted  promising,  but  when  I  found  a  deed 
of  his  with  'Gregory  Craven,  His  Mark,'  I 
felt  tolerably  sure  that  he  couldn't  have  been 
a  governor,  or  assistant  governor,  or  mem- 
ber of  the  colonial  legislature  for  more  than 
three  years,  or  a  secretary  of  state,  or  have 
written  an  election  sermon,  or  been  any 
eligible  thing.  So  I  gave  him  up.  And 
the  other  Cravens,  if  they  did  anything, 
didn't  belong  to  us — they  were  collaterals 
instead  of  directs — and  if  they  belong  to  us, 
they  didn't  do  anything  public,  except  that 
one  of  Grandmamma  Craven's  ancestresses 
received  relief  from  the  selectmen  as  'a 
poor,  distressed  widow  woman  subject  to 
fits' — that's  not  gratifying,  either!" 

"It's  awful!"  moaned  Ellen.  "I  wish  you 
hadn't  told  me.  What  shall  we  do?" 

"What  we  ought  to  do,  if  we  weren't 
cowardly  snobs,  is  to  tell  Mrs.  Masters  that 
we  find  our  ancestors  did  not  do  anything 
of  note,  and  say,  'Therefore,  I  pray  thee, 
have  me  excused!'  " 

"But  think  of  her  triumph!" 

"Think  of  the  triumph  of  our  consciences 
— but  don't  be  scared,  Ellen;  I  am  a  cow- 
75 


A   COLONIAL    DAME 

ardly  snob,  too ;  I  shall  try  to  invent  some 
plausible  lie." 

"We  might — but  mammas  ancestors  are 
hopeless." 

"Absolutely  hopeless, ' '  agreed  Gertie ;  "it 
would  be  a  waste  of  time  to  look.  Maybe 
some  way  out  will  suggest  itself — some  lie 
that  is  not  too  transparent."  Ellen  sighed, 
and  they  drove  home  in  silence. 

That  night  Gertie  wrote  to  Reginald.  She 
wrote  with  a  frown  and  set  teeth  at  the  very 
end  of  her  letter.  "There  is  one  dear  friend 
of  our  family  that  I  want  you  to  meet.  I 
hope  you  will  like  her.  She  is  very  plain,  and 
not  at  all  a  fine  lady"  (she  had  lifted  her  pen 
to  make  the  word  gentlewoman,  but  threw 
it  down,  crying,  "No,  I  won't  deny  poor 
Cousin  Jerry  that"),  "but  she  has  a  heart  of 
gold." 

Reginald  came  a  day  earlier  than  she  had 
expected  him.  He  was  a  tall  young  fellow 
with  a  kind,  ugly  face  and  a  simple  manner. 
He  blushed  when  he  met  Mrs.  Craven,  and 
said,  "You're  awfully  good  to  let  me  have 
Gertie. "  He  was  interested  in  the  town  and 
in  the  people.  He  spoke  with  an  English 
76 


A  COLONIAL   DAME 

accent ;  but  even  Tim,  who  viewed  him  with 
an  elder  brother's  critical  eyes,  could  find 
no  nonsense  about  him.  In  the  afternoon, 
he  walked  with  Gertie,  affecting  to  look  at 
the  streets,  really  busy  with  a  slim  and 
dainty  shape  at  his  side.  "I  have  seen 
Timothy,"  said  he,  "and  Johnny's  an  old 
friend,  and  Hazel  is  a  cousin — I've  seen 
all  your  people,  Gertie,  except  your 
Cousin  Jerry.  Take  me  to  see  her,  can't 
you?" 

A  wicked  cowardice  whispered  in  Gertie's 
ear,  "It  is  perfectly  safe,  she  will  be  out; 
and  you  can  please  her  by  leaving  cards. ' ' 
She  listened,  and  afterward  she  believed 
she  would  have  yielded;  but  even  as  she 
lifted  her  head  to  assent,  a  glittering  phaeton 
wheeled  by,  turned ;  out  between  the  lamps 
bent  a  delicate  profile,  and  Mrs.  Allen 
Masters'  silvery  voice  called,  "Oh,  Miss 
Gertrude!" 

The  etiquette  of  a  western  town  demanded 
that  Reginald  be  presented.  Mrs.  Masters 
gave  him  one  of  her  sweetest  smiles. 

"And — oh,  Miss  Gertrude,  may  we  hope 
to  have  your  papers  to-morrow?"  said  she; 
77 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

"never  mind  the  supplemental  one  ancestor 
is  enough ! ' ' 

"If  you  can  catch  him!"  Gertie  groaned, 
within.  But  she  answered,  k '  I  will  send  you 
the  papers  or  write  to-morrow,  Mrs. 
Masters." 

"Thank  you  so  much."  And  Mrs.  Mas- 
ters, smiling,  passed  on. 

"What  a  ripping  fine  woman!"  said 
Reggy. 

A  kind  of  disgust  of  herself,  of  her 
deference  to  the  woman  who  had  gone,  of 
pretence  of  every  kind  swept  over  Gertie. 

"Yes,  she's  handsome,"  she  replied. 
"Reggy,  you  were  speaking  of  Cousin  Jerry; 
I  don't  think  we  should  find  her  in ;  she  goes 
out  dressmaking  by  the  day,  and  she  would 
be  gone.  After  dinner  we  might  go." 

She  hurried  her  words  a  little,  and  her 
cheek  wore  a  fine  rose ;  but  Reggy  answered, 
easily,  "Why,  of  course;  I  might  have 
thought  of  that.  Your  mother  told  me 
about  her.  Don't  you  think  there's  some- 
thing very  touching  in  a  friendship  like 
theirs?" 

"Yes,"  said  Gertie.  "Cousin  Jerry  is 
78 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

worth  a  dozen  ordinary  women.  You  know 
we  wanted  her  to  live  with  us,  but  she  was 
too  independent." 

"She's  a  fine  old  gentlewoman,"  declared 
Reggy,  "and  we  will  surely  go  to  see  her 
after  dinner. 

Gertie  looked  at  him  dubiously ;  her  heart, 
which  had  lightened  marvelously,  sank  again. 
What  was  Reggy 's  idea  of  a  gentlewoman? 
Nevertheless,  she  took  him  to  see  Miss  Jerry 
after  dinner.  The  bakery  doors  were  pro- 
tected by  screens,  but  the  flies  watched  their 
chance,  and  were  so  many  inside  that  they 
buzzed  unpleasantly.  The  baker,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  was  wrapping  up  his  wares 
for  a  crowd  of  barefooted  children,  some  of 
whose  faces  needed  washing.  On  the  steps 
outside,  the  baker's  wife  rocked  the  baby. 

"This  is  the  place,"  said  Gertie.  She  felt 
an  instinct  of  defiance,  of  kinship,  of  fierce 
young  protection,  rising  to  battle  with  her 
own  perception  of  the  way  Reggy  must  be 
viewing  the  home  of  Cousin  Jerry.  Reggy, 
however,  at  this  moment  was  innocently 
greeting  Mrs.  Timothy  Craven.  She  had 
just  come  out  of  the  bakery — a  slender 

79 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

young  girl  with  regular  features  and  a  near- 
sighted frown. 

"Gertie,  have  you  tasted  the  cream  cakes 
here?"  she  exclaimed,  most  amiably; 
"they're  delicious.  Filled  with  real  cream ! ' ' 

' '  They  are  nice, ' '  returned  Gertie,  calmly ; 
"but  we  came  to  pay  a  visit  to  Cousin  Jerry. ' ' 

She  was  reminded  of  the  experience  (which 
she  had  once  read)  of  a  woman  obliged  to 
kill  a  chicken,  who  said  that  she  trembled 
all  the  way  to  the  fatal  block,  and  could 
hardly  see  the  hatchet,  but  the  moment  she 
lifted  it  her  nerve  returned,  and  she  needed 
only  to  strike  one  blow. 

"Didn't  you  know  she  lived  here?"  she 
continued,  with  a  composure  that  struck 
herself  as  stony.  "Come  up-stairs  and  see 
her." 

Even  as  Mrs.  Tim  hesitated,  the  bakery 
screens  opened  and  Miss  Jerry  appeared, 
breathless.  She  had  run  all  the  way  down- 
stairs to  get  a  view  of  Reggy.  She  did  not 
mean  to  let  them  see  her,  but  when  she 
heard  Gertie's  words  her  heart  overcame  her. 

"Do  come  up,"  she  urged,  "and  have 
some  cream  cakes  and  ice-cream  up-stairs." 
80 


A  COLONIAL   DAME 

Mrs.  Tim  was  haughty,  but  she  was  well 
bred.  She  saw  no  civil  way  out  of  the 
snare,  and  meekly  followed  in  Miss  Jerry's 
wake.  Up-stairs,  in  the  little  parlor,  she- 
politely  tried  to  make  conversation,  and 
admired  the  cabinet. 

"It's  like  one  an  old  uncle  of  mine  had," 
said  she;  "they  are  immensely  interesting, 
these  old  rosewood  things;  yes,  here's  the 
secret  drawer,  you  press  the  spring — oh,  I 
beg  your  pardon!" 

"It's  nothing,  said  Miss  Jerry,  but  she 
grew  very  pale;  "just  my  little  store  of 
letters — thank  you,  Miss  Gertie." 

Gertie  was  as  red  as  the  other  was  pale. 
In  replacing  the  letters  she  had  caught  her 
own  name  at  the  end  of  the  childish  scrawls, 
and  seen  her  own  photographs  in  a  bundle ; 
from  the  baby's  card,  faded  and  dull,  to  her 
latest  carbon  type,  in  a  Paris  gown. 

"Do  you  like  that  gown?"  said  she,  her 
eyes  flashing.  "I've  another  Paris  gown  to 
wear  at  the  party.  Cousin  Jerry,  what  are 
you  going  to  wear?" 

Miss  Jerry  looked  very  strange.     "I  don't 
expect  to  go,"  said  she,  in  a  low  tone. 
81 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

"But  you  must,"  said  Gertie;  "you  must 
give  up  the  whole  day  to  it,  and  come  early 
to  arrange  the  flowers." 

"I  will  fix  the  flowers,  and  gladly,  Gertie, 
but  I  can't  come." 

"We'll  see  about  that  later,"  said  Gertie, 
imperiously;  "here's  the  ice-cream." 

There  was  a  little  bustle  of  hospitality, 
and  Gertie  bent  her  hot  cheeks  over  the 
white  mound,  while  Mrs.  Tim's  lips 
stiffened;  but  she  was  too  well  bred  to 
betray  resentment  before  a  stranger;  as  she 
phrased  it,  a  stranger  not  of  her  own  class ; 
and  she  ate  her  ice-cream  leisurely.  Reggy, 
conscious  of  an  awkward  pause,  essayed  a 
new  subject. 

"I  see,  Hazel,  you  have  started  the 
Colonial  Dames  here,"  said  he.  "A  lady 
spoke  to  Gertie  about  it  on  the  street." 

"Are  you  going  to  join,  Miss  Gertie?"  said 
Miss  Jerry. 

"I'm  afraid  it  isn't  a  question  of  wanting; 
we  haven't  the  wherewithal  of  ancestors, 
Cousin  Jerry,"  said  Gertie,  trying  to 
laugh. 

"You  have  at  least  five  that  /  know  of," 
82 


A  COLONIAL   DAME 

said  Miss  Jerry,  and  a  streak  of  red  crept 
up  her  cheek,  "in  your  mother's  family." 

"Has  your  mother  any  colonial  ances- 
tors?" asked  Mrs.  Tim.  She  habitually  called 
her  mother-in-law  "your  mother,"  one  of 
her  little  ways  that  irritated  Gertie. 

"She  can  get  in  on  old  Governor  Win- 
throp,  I  expect, ' '  said  Miss  Jerry. 

"You  have  the  line  proved?"  Mrs.  Tim 
could  not  help  the  ring  of  doubt  in  her  voice. 

Miss  Jerry  smiled  rather  grimly.  She 
arose,  and  from  the  secret  drawer  she  took 
out  a  long,  white  box,  from  which  she 
removed  and  unfolded  a  roll  of  parchment 
decked  with  softly  engraved  medallions  of 
coats  of  arms  and  a  huge  red  seal,  from 
which  depended  a  blue  and  buff  ribbon. 
Her  finger  traveled  to  the  boldly  written 
names  and  the  engraved  inscription,  "Miss 
Jerusha  Winthrop  Arnold  has  been  duly  elected 
a  member  of  the  Massachusetts  society  of  the 
Colonial  Dames  of  America,  in  the  right  of 
her  ancestor,  Governor  John  Wintkrop. ' ' 

' '  You  can  copy  your  paper  and  the  dates 
and  things  from  mine  down  to  your  great- 
grandmother,  and  your  mother  has  got  the 
83 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

certificates  and  family  Bibles  after  that," 
said  Miss  Jerry. 

"Your  name  is  Winthrop,"  cried  Gertie, 
"but  I  never  thought — " 

"Me  neither, "  said  Miss  Jerry.  "I  didn't 
rightly  know  about  it  till  last  summer,  on 
that  trip  your  mother  made  me  take.  I  met 
Cousin  Phebe  Abbot,  and  she's  ancestor 
mad;  and  she  got  it  all  ready.  I  thought  it 
might  please  you  girls.  I  didn't  get  the 
certificate  until  last  week,  and,  of  course,  I 
didn't  want  to  speak  before.  I  didn't  even 
tell  your  ma.  You'll  have  her  join,  of 
course!" 

"Reginald  is  descended  from  the  Win- 
throps,"  said  Mrs.  Tim. 

"Then  you  are  my  Cousin  Jerry,  too,  Miss 
Arnold,"  said  Reggy,  who  looked  very 
amused.  He  told  Gertie  afterward  that  he 
wouldn't  have  missed  the  scene  for  the  world, 
that  Hazel's  face  was  a  sight  to  behold. 

Gertie  did  not  notice  his  amusement; 
afterward  she  laughed;  but  it  was  another 
emotion  she  felt  at  the  time,  which  made 
her  fling  her  arms  about  Miss  Jerry,  between 
laughing  and  crying,  and  exclaim:  "You 
84 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

gave  me  the  prettiest  doll  I  ever  had,  Cousin 
Jerry,  and  now  you  give  me  the  prettiest 
badge ! ' ' 

Mrs.  Tim  arose.  She  said  she  must  go; 
but  she  smiled  on  Miss  Jerry,  and  asked  her 
to  come  to  see  her  Copley  miniatures. 

"And  you  will  come  to  the  party,"  cried 
Gertie,  "and  wear  your  badge,  and  be  the 
first  Colonial  Dame  here!" 

"Yes,  do  come,"  said  Mrs.  Tim. 

And  Reggy  coughed  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  before  he  added  his  entreaties. 

Miss  Jerry  did  come.  She  wore  a  new 
gown  presented  by  Gertie,  which  was  vastly 
admired  by  the  whole  building.  Everybody 
assisted  at  the  toilet,  and  she  departed  in 
the  presence  of  the  entire  body  of  tenants, 
who  almost  cheered  her.  Reggy  was  very 
attentive  to  her,  and  called  her  "Cousin 
Jerry."  Many  people  told  the  Cravens  that 
Miss  Arnold  was  a  distinguished-looking 
woman.  The  same  people  said  that  she  had 
a  sweet,  quaint  way  of  talking. 

"She  is  an  old-fashioned  New  England 
gentlewoman,"  said  Mrs.  Tim.  "I  like  the 
way  they  talk." 

85 


A   COLONIAL   DAME 

And  Reggy  ducked  his  head  and  actually 
winked  at  Gertie. 

As  for  Ellen,  she  was  busy  crushing  Mrs. 
Masters.  She  brought  her  up,  and  pre- 
sented her  in  form  to  "My  Cousin,  Miss 
Arnold. ' ' 

"Miss  Arnold  will  explain  our  line  of 
descent,"  said  she,  grandly;  "please  tell 
her,  Cousin  Jerry.  The  Winthrop  one,  I 
mean." 

"Cousin  Jerry"  the  Colonial  Dame  has 
remained  ever  since  to  all  the  Craven  family, 
including  Mrs.  Tim;  while  Mrs.  Craven,  a 
Dame  now  herself,  is  treated  with  so  much 
consideration  that  she  feels  the  liveliest  grati- 
tude to  Miss  Jerry,  old  Governor  Winthrop 
of  illustrious  memory,  and  the  Colonial 
Dames  of  America. 


A  Jealous  Woman 


' '  TV  T  O W    put  the   basket   on   the   lounge 

L  il      and  move  the  lounge   to   the  win- 
dow." 

"I'm  'fraid  it  hurt  Mrs.  Rogers— after 
such  a  bad  night. " 

"Never  mind.     Move  it!" 

Hulda  had  only  been  a  month  with  the 
Rogerses,  but  she  knew  enough  not  to  dis- 
regard that  particular  intonation.  Being  a 
Swede  and  not  a  Frenchwoman,  she  did  not 
shrug  her  plump  shoulders ;  but  she  shot  an 
eyeblink  through  the  crack  in  the  door,  at  a 
woman  in  the  hall,  before  she  wheeled  the 
lounge  as  directed.  Drops  beaded  the  brow 
of  the  woman  on  the  lounge ;  she  grew  paler 
and  frowned  with  pain,  yet  not  a  sigh 
escaped  her  lips. 

The  Swede  eyed  her  covertly,  admiration 
and  disapproval  both  in  her  heavy,  fair  face. 
"Mrs.  Rogers  want  any t' ing  else?" 
87 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

''No,  thank  you.  I've  got  the  undershirts 
to  mend?  Yes.  Well,  you  dust  the  sitting- 
room  with  a  damp  cloth — it's  not  dusting, 
it's  only  swapping  dust,  to  dust  with  a 
feather  duster.  And  tell  Susan  to  have 
marrowfat  peas  instead  of  the  string-beans 
for  dinner.  Mr.  Rogers  doesn't  like  beans ; 
and  you  can  help  Susan  iron  so  she  can  make 
some  ice-cream.  Some  bread  and  butter 
and  tea  is  all  I  shall  want.  You  needn't 
toast  the  bread. ' ' 

"Won't  I  stay  wid  Mrs.  Rogers?  Won't 
s'e  want  some — " 

"Nothing.  You  go  and  help  Susan.  I 
have  a  bell  if  I  need  you." 

Hulda  went,  nothing  loth,  to  join  Susan 
Pierce  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Susan  was 
a  little,  gaunt,  plain  woman  in  a  scant-skirted 
blue  calico,  such  as  the  Amana  colonists 
wear.  Indeed,  before  she  married  a  worldly 
farmer  and  became  his  widow,  Susan  was  of 
the  colony  herself — it  is  only  an  hour's  ride 
by  steam,  from  the  little  University  town ; 
and  she  always  kept  a  hint  of  it  in  her 
austere  garb  for  work  or  leisure. 

"Well?"  said  Susan  Pierce. 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

"S'e  looks  awful  sick,  but  s'e  says  s'e  don't 
want  me.  S'e  made  me  move  the  lounge 
so  s'e  can  watch  him  from  window.  S'e 
say  you  make  ice-cream  and  I  help  you,  and 
s'e  only  like  bread  and  butter — not  toast 
bread — " 

"  'Cause  it's  ironing  day,"  interrupted 
Susan.  "Some  ways  she's  real  considerate; 
and  I  never  did  see  sech  a  housekeeper  as 
her,  sick  or  well." 

"Nor  I  never  see  such  a  beautiful  kitchen, 
such  pretty  white  sink  and  lots  of  t'ings  to 
cook  out.  And  no  company — " 

"I  wisht  there  was  more  company.  No 
childern  and  no  company  makes  a  house  dull. 
But  we  don't  lack  for  good  eating  when 
he's  home.  I  never  seen  a  man  so  pam- 
pered. I  guess  his  second  won't  give  him  a 
clean  shirt  every  day.  Well,  you  going  to 
help  with  the  ironing?" 

Hulda  was  going  to  help.  She  much  pre- 
ferred a  gossip  over  the  ironing-board  to  a 
silent  morning  with  the  invalid.  Smilingly 
she  led  the  way  to  the  laundry  and  began 
at  a  great,  damp  bundle.  The  wide  west 
door  of  the  laundry  was  open,  as  were  the 
89 


A  JEALOUS   WOMAN 

two  south  windows — windows  and  doors 
being  covered  with  wire,  against  which 
the  lavish  morning-glory  vines  were  tap- 
ping softly  gorgeous  bells  of  purple  and 
red,  not  yet  shrunken  by  the  sun.  Morn- 
ing or  afternoon  it  was  always  shady 
under  the  laundry  windows,  because  of  the 
great  cherry  tree  which  glittered  now  with 
little  dots  of  flame.  The  birds  were  sing- 
ing, and  a  blue  jay  scolded  a  sparrow  with 
grotesque  travesty  of  wrath.  Through  the 
greenery  was  a  vista  of  pastures  where  cat- 
tle were  grazing  among  the  trees,  a  swell  of 
shorn  hay-field  which  glistened  like  yellow- 
white  silk,  another  field  where  the  reaper 
was  moving;  and  beyond,  the  lovely,  rich 
green  undulations  of  a  field  of  corn,  that 
dipped  into  a  snowy,  shifting  mountain 
range  of  clouds.  Once,  when  Professor 
Rogers,  as  he  was  always  called  (although 
really  he  had  never  advanced  beyond  the 
modest  state  of  "instructor")  was  teaching 
English  literature  in  the  State  University, 
he  asked  an  Iowa  boy,  what,  in  his  judg- 
ment, was  the  most  beautiful  object  in 
nature,  to  which  the  answer  came  promptly: 
90 


A  JEALOUS   WOMAN 

"A  field  of  corn  just  ready  to  tassel — when 
the  lines  are  drawn  straight!'* 

In  the  dry  years  that  had  quenched  all 
his  young  ambitions,  often,  Ben  Rogers  had 
looked  on  "the  big  corn-field,"  recalling 
the  lad's  words,  and  always  with  an  obscure 
moving  of  the  heart.  Even  Susan  Pierce, 
who  did  not  incline  to  sentiment,  drew  a 
pleased  sigh,  as  she  gazed,  that  morning. 
"Corn's  looking  real  well,"  said  Susan. 

"It's  a  nice  farm,"  agreed  Hulda. 
"Ain'  it  queer  when  folks  own  such  a  nice 
farm  and  have  such  a  pretty  house  dey 
don't  be  happy?  Just  'cause  s'e's  so  yealous ; 
but  I  don't  see  but  what  e's  a  nice  mans." 

"And  he  is  a  nice  man,  Hulda  Oleson," 
cried  Susan ;  "prompt  to  his  meals  and  ready 
to  praise  'em,  and  grateful  when  you  do 
things,  and  always  wipes  his  feet  in  muddy 
weather.  /  call  the  professor  'bout  as  good 
as  they  make  'em.  But  I  ain't  denying 
she's  jealous;  she  always  was." 

"Wat  of?" 

"Everybody.  That's  the  mischief  of  it. 
'Tain't  only  the  women.  They're  the  worst, 
of  course;  but  she's  jealous  of  his  friends. 
91 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

Why,  she  was  so  jealous  of  an  old  dog  he 
had  that  he  thought  the  world  on,  she 
wouldn't  let  him  have  the  critter  in  the 
house,  not  even  on  the  piazza..  Many's  the 
time  I've  seen  him  a-setting  on  the  grass 
so's  to  have  Jumbo  near  him.  He  was  a 
little  raggedy  dog,  but  he  called  him  Jumbo 
'cause  he  had  such  a  spirit.  The  professor, 
he  used  to  wash  that  dog  and  comb  him  and 
teach  him  tricks;  and  then,  when  he  got 
him  learned,  one  day  he  tied  a  blue  ribbon  to 
his  collar  and  combed  him  nice  and  sen 
him  in — on  the  /z'azza — to  show  off  his  tricks 
to  Mrs.  Rogers.  I  was  peeking  'round  the 
door,  for  I  knowed  what  the  professor  was 
up  to ;  and  he  had  the  dog  go  through  all 
his  little  tricks — they  was  real  cute — and 
some  way  the  critter  had  a  real  anxious  look 
in  his  eye,  like  he  knew  he  was  trying  to 
please.  But  when  he  was  through,  and 
the  professor,  who  looked  'most  's  anxious 
as  the  doggie,  turns  to  her  and  says,  'I'm 
going  to  give  this  accomplished  little  animal 
to  you,  my  dear,  if  you  will  accept  him, '  she 
said  she  didn't  want  him.  The  professor 
looked  at  her  one  minute,  never  said  a  word, 
92 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

jest  looked.  Then  he  picked  up  the  dog, 
and  looked  at  him  real  affectionate  like. 
'I'm  sorry,'  says  he;  'I  thought  he'd  be 
company  to  you  when  I  was  away  in  the 
fields.  You'd  have  grown  fond  of  him, 
maybe.'  He  walked  off  a  few  steps  and  he 
stopped,  maybe  hoping  she'd  call  him  back; 
but  she  didn't.  She  sat  there  looking  mad 
— awful  mad ;  and  he  took  the  dog  off.  He 
patted  it  as  he  was  walking  off.  Next  morn- 
ing that  dog  was  dead — poisoned!" 

"Ihela  verldenf"  cried  Hulda.  "Say,  did 
s'e  poison  him?" 

Mrs.  Pierce  bore  harder  on  the  flatiron 
than  seemed  necessary.  "I  ain't  saying. 
All  I  know  is,  there  he  was;  and  the  pro- 
fessor found  him  all  limp,  lying  on  the  /zazza 
step,  like  he'd  tried  to  get  to  his  master. 
He  felt  bad.  I  guess  they  had  a  quarrel. 
Fact  is,  I  did  hear  him  say  (as  I  passed  the 
door) :  'You  might  have  left  me  a  dog!'  " 

"What  did  he  want  to  give  it  to  her  if  s'e 
was  such  cruel  vomans?" 

"She  wouldn't  have  been  cruel  to  it  if 
she'd  a-taken  it.  No,  I  guess  he  knowed 
how  she  felt,  and  that  was  how  he  tried  to 
93 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

save  the  critter.  But,  land!  that's  only  one 
thing.  I've  seen  her  when  he  was  in  the 
university  and  they  lived  down-town — I've 
seen  her  refuse  to  set  down  at  table  when  he 
brought  a  friend  to  dinner — right  before  the 
man,  too.  Of  course  nobody  was  going  to 
call  on  him  or  take  a  meal  with  him  if  they 
was  exposed  to  sech  treatment.  And  the 
girls  in  his  classes — oh  my!  She  went  to 
one  of  them  and  told  her,  'You  let  my  hus- 
band alone!'  The  girl  was  a  real  nice  girl 
and  hadn't  done  a  thing  'cept  let  him  walk 
home  with  her  one  day  when  it  rained  and 
she  hadn't  no  umbrella.  She  was  mad  enough. 
Then  Mis'  Rogers  took  to  going  to  all  his 
classes,  herself.  I  guess  'twas  that  shamed 
him  so  he  gave  up  his  job.  Maybe  he  had 
to,  for  there  was  an  awful  sight  of  talk,  her 
acting  that  way.  That's  how  he  come  to 
buy  this  farm.  Ruther,  she  bought  it.  She's 
got  the  money.  I  will  say  for  her  she  knows 
how  to  run  a  farm — her  folks  was  farmers, 
you  know.  It's  her  more'n  him  made  the 
money.  They've  been  more  peacefuller 
sence  she  come  out  here.  He's  dretful  care- 
ful for  one  thing.  But  when  he  got  kinder 

94 


A  JEALOUS   WOMAN 

interestid  in  politics  and  they  was  talking  of 
running-  him  for  the  legislatoor,  she  put  a 
stop  to  that  in  a  jiffy.  I've  often  wondered 
she  bought  here,  next  to  the  Mori-ills,  them 
jest  across  the  road.  Maybe  she  didn't 
know  'bout  how  he  was  supposed  to  have 
been  engaged  to  Hetty  Morrill ;  or  maybe — 
for  she's  awful  sharp  in  a  bargain — her  git- 
tin'  this  place  so  cheap  on  a  mortgage,  was 
what  moved  her.  Anyhow  she  done  it — she 
herself.  And  for  the  better  part  of  fifteen 
year  she's  been  jealous  of  poor  Miss  Mor- 
rill." 

"Say,  how'd  he  come  to  marry  her?  Why 
didn't  he  marry  Miss  Morrill?  s'e  seem  such 
nice  lady." 

"So  she  is,  too;  took  care  of  her  pa  for 
seventeen  years,  most,  him  helpless  and  she 
running  the  place  and  making  a  good  living 
with  early  vegetables,  and  not  only  not  call- 
ing on  the  boys  who  are  all  married  and  got 
families,  but  helping  dress  and  educate  their 
children.  And  she,  not  letting  the  professor 
much's  cross  the  threshold  nor  let  'em  have 
milk  when  one  of  their  cows  died  sudden 
and  t'other  one  was  dry!  He  never  did  step 
95 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

his  foot  over  the  doorsill  till  old  Dr.  Morrill 
died  sudden  in  the  night,  and  he  would  go 
over  next  morning  to  help.  Why,  Hulda 
Oleson,  she  had  the  gall  to  be  worked  up 
over  that!  Had  hysterics  and  threatened  to 
kill  him.  She  hollered  and  screamed  so  you 
could  hear  her  in  the  kitchen ;  wanted  him 
to  promise  he'd  not  go  to  the  funeral.  But 
I'm  thankful  to  say  he  did  go ;  but  he  ketched 
it,  afterwards,  I  guess." 

She  paused  to  adjust  the  shining  folds  of 
damask  that  she  was  ironing,  and  her 
thoughts  took  a  new  turn.  "Ain't  that 
pretty  table  linen?"  she  sighed;  "there  ain't 
a  lady  on  the  faculty — not  even  the  presi- 
dent's wife's  got  finer  table-cloths  and  nap- 
kins than  she  has;  and  she's  been  ailing  ten 
years,  and  only  able  to  ride  round  in  a 
wheeled  chair.  But  twict  a  year  she'd  be 
lifted  into  the  phaeton  and  druv  to  the  depot 
with  the  chair  in  the  wagon  follerin'  after, 
and  she'd  go  to  Chicago  and  buy  things  and, 
as  she  says,  see  the  fashions  and  give  him  a 
real  good  time.  She  went  when  it  was  jest 
torture  to  her  and  she  wa'n't  nowise  able. 
Never  mind,  she  was  going;  and  she'd  go 
96 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

with  him  to  the  theaters,  too.  But  the  last 
year  she  ain't  able  to  leave  her  lounge; 
but  you  notice  she  won't  move  down-stairs 
— that's  so  she  kin  look  over  the  fields  from 
one  winder  and  over  the  Morrills'  from  the 
other  and  watch  him  good.  She's  at  the 
Morrill  winder  (I  call  it),  this  mornin'." 

"I  t'ink  e'd  git  wore  out." 

"I  guess  he  does.  I  come  to  'em  when 
they  was  first  married.  And  then  I  got 
married  and  lived  on  my  own  farm  till  Pierce 
died,  and  then  she  wanted  me  back  and  I 
was  lonesome  after  my  girl  married  and  I 
hadn't  earned  enough  to  live  like  I  wanted, 
so  I  come;  and  I  can  tell  you,  I  seen  a 
change.  When  I  was  first  here,  they'd  have 
hot  quarrels;  but  then  she'd  come  round  and 
cry  and  beg  him  to  forgive  her  and  they'd 
make  up  and  seem  real  loving  to  each  other. 
Now,  they  don't  seem  to  have  so  much 
fights,  he's  looking  old  and  discouraged  and 
broke,  and  he's  patient  with  what  would  'a' 
sent  him  a-swearing,  once.  But  they  don't 
have  none  of  them  old  making-up  times, 
either.  I  never  seen  him  real  mad  at  her 
but  that  one  time  'bout  the  dog  and  one 

97 


A   JEALOUS   WOMAN 

time  when  she  shot  Miss  Hetty's  bronze 
turkey.  It  someway  got  into  our  yard  and 
she  was  in  her  wheel-chair  and  she  got  her 
pistil  fetched  her  and  plugged  it  full — a- 
settin'  right  on  the  grass  and  Miss  Hetty 
running  to  save  it.  That's  the  only  time 
she  ever  come  in  our  gate !  Professor  wanted 
to  give  her  another,  but  she  wouldn't  take  it. ' ' 

"Ain  t  it  awful  old  folkses  like  im  and 
er  going  on  dat  way!"  cried  Hulda,  to 
whom,  as  to  many  young  people,  love,  except 
in  its  most  decorous  and  placid  forms, 
appeared  the  property  of  youth  alone. 
"W'y!  e  must  be  fifty  years  ole — and  s'e's 
ol'er!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  almost  of 
awe  at  the  shameful  spectacle. 

"Fifty  ain't  so  awful  old,"  returned  Mrs. 
Pierce,  drily,  "  'specially  for  a  man.  Tho' 
he  is  a  good  deal  dried  up  and  runted  by 
what  he's  gone  through  and  being  out  in 
the  sun.  She's  some  older'n  him,  I  dunno 
how  much.  I  know  when  he  married  her, 
he  was  twenty-eight — " 

"  'Ow'd  e  come  to  marry  er?" 

"I  dunno  ezactly.  He  was  teaching,  and 
the  girls  were  all  going  on  'bout  him.  She 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

was  a  only  child,  and  her  folks  left  her 
money,  and  she  took  it  into  her  head  she 
wanted  to  be  a  trained  nurse,  and  she  come 
here  to  be  in  the  hospital.  And  he  was  took 
sick  with  typhoid  fever  and,  fact  is,  she 
saved  his  life  with  her  missing;  and  when 
he  got  well  he  married  her.  /  always 
thought  he  was  in  love  with  Hetty  Morrill 
and  her  with  him;  but  they  had  a  fool 
quarrel,  and  then  he  couldn't  make  it  up 
'cause  he  went  off  and  married  this  one. 
Well,  I  will  say  when  she  ain't  jealous,  she's 
good  as  gold  to  him.  And  I  can't  help 
being  kinder  sorry  for  her  lately,  sence  that 
young  flyaway  niece  of  Miss  Merrill's  come 
to  'tend  the  university  and  stay  at  her  aunt's. 
Minnit  I  set  my  eyes  on  her  I  knowed  she'd 
make  trouble.  She'd  a  young  feller  with 
her;  but  she's  one  of  the  flirty  kind,  and  she 
druv  up  to  our  gate  and  begun  making  eyes 
at  the  professor  right  before  her !  Well,  she's 
kept  it  up.  I  dunno  whether  she's  mean  or 
just  mischievous]  But  I'd  think  a  lot  more 
of  her  if  she  helped  her  aunt  more  'bout  the 
house." 

Susan  folded  the  table-cloth   before  she 
99 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

spoke  again,  this  time  with  a  lower  voice: 
"Say,  Hulda,  don't  she  strike  you  as  sicker 
all  the  time?  She  never  complains,  but  she's 
give  up  doing  things.  I  guess  he  won't  have 
to  wait  long  to  be  quit  of  her  jealous  ways. 
And  yet,  I  will  say  when  she  ain't  jealous, 
she's  awful  kind  and  good.  I  ain't  nothing 
to  complain  of  myself,  neither. ' ' 

While  the  women  talked  Elsie  Rogers  was 
lying  on  her  lounge  by  the  window.  She 
had  been  a  pretty  girl,  with  a  plump,  dashing, 
high-colored  comeliness.  Now,  she  was  thin 
and  sallow.  Her  skin  showed  the  sickly  pallor 
of  old  ivory  There  were  fretful  wrinkles 
about  the  lips  that  had  been  like  rose-leaves 
when  young  Ben  Rogers  used  to  lecture  on 
English  literature  and  quote  Swinburne  in 
his  beautiful  voice. 

She  could  hear  the  very  cadence  of  his 
voice,  again,  telling  how  the  gods  made  man 
of  "fire  and  the  falling  of  tears  and  a  hand- 
ful of  shifting  sand. ' ' 

"He  weaves  and  is  clothed  with  derision, 

He  sows  and  he  shall  not  weep, 
His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 
Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. ' ' 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

A  spark  glowed  in  Elsie  Rogers's  smolder- 
ing black  eyes,  as  her  thoughts  went  back  to 
those  days. 

"That's  true  enough,"  she  muttered, 
"and  I  am  clothed  with  derision,  I've  given 
him  everything.  He  was  poor;  he  owed 
money  when  I  married  him.  I  paid  it  all 
off  for  him.  And  when  I  came  into  my 
money  I  bought  this  farm  for  him  and 
ran  it.  Much  he  knew  of  farming!  And 
I've  stood  between  him  and  everything. 
And  it's  been  like  hell,  all  the  time.  And 
now  when  I  know  I've  got  to  die,  I  keep 
thinking  of  him,  instead — what's  that?" 

She  raised  herself  painfully  on  her  elbow. 
She  could  see  the  Morrill  doorway  brightened 
by  a  dainty  shape  in  pink  dimity,  a  golden- 
brown  head,  with  a  broad  leghorn  hat 
crowned  with  roses  and  decked  in  long 
pink  ribbon  streamers  that  flew  loose  in  the 
breeze. 

A  little  hiss  of  pain  parted  Elsie  Rogers's 
lips  when  she  twisted  her  shoulders  to  watch 
the  pink  figure  trip  down  the  yellow  streak 
of  road.  It  stopped,  a  little  space  further 
on;  and  the  roses  fluttered  gayly,  while 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

the  girl  leaned  on  the  fence  and  talked  with 
a  little  man  in  blue  overalls.  Elsie  could 
almost  hear  the  laughter.  The  talk  was 
brief,  and  directly  the  girl  in  pink  was 
tripping  back  to  the  house,  while  Ben  (for  the 
man  was  her  husband)  turned  on  his  heel 
and  came  frowning  towards  her.  But  he 
did  not  mount  the  stairs.  Ten  minutes, 
perhaps,  passed,  during  which  she  heard 
his  footsteps  be1ow,  the  footsteps  of  a  person 
moving  about  a  room,  not  passing  from  one 
room  to  another,  and  then  she  saw  him 
come  out,  having  changed  his  rough  garb 
for  a  white  crash  suit  and  his  new  straw 
hat. 

"That's  why  he  has  got  to  keeping  his 
clothes  down-stairs,  is  it?"  muttered  his  wife. 
She  smiled  bitterly  as  the  colt  and  the  new 
buggy  with  the  red  wheels  were  brought  out 
to  the  gate ;  more  bitterly  as  Ben  drove  the 
new  buggy  up  to  the  shabby  brown  gate  of 
the  Morrills.  It  was  no  surprise  to  her  that 
the  dainty  pink  skirts  should  flutter  again 
through  the  doorway  and  flutter  into  the 
buggy,  while  Ben  stood  by  the  horse's  head. 
It  was  no  surprise  to  have  Sadie  Morrill  fling 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

the  insolent  challenge  of  her  smile  up  at  the 
invalid's  window,  as  the  dust  volleyed  under 
the  red  wheels. 

For  a  second  the  jealous  wife  burrowed  her 
head  in  the  pillow  with  a  sick  moan;  but 
she  lifted  it  at  the  creak  of  the  Morrills' 
door.  Hester  Morrill,  it  was  now,  who  stood 
in  the  doorway  and  the  sunshine,  a  slender 
woman  with  gray  in  her  brown  hair  and 
lines  about  the  patient  brown  eyes. 

"My!  doesn't  she  look  old  in  that  blaze!" 
the  watcher  gloated,  venomously;  "she's 
watching  him,  too.  Does  it  hurt,  Miss?  I 
hope  it  does.  I'm  not  the  only  one  to  have 
my  heart  cut  out.  How  do  you  like  it,  now 
it's  your  turn?  Wearing  baby-blue  calico, 
because  it  used  to  be  becoming!  And  you 
can  see  the  gray  in  her  hair  across  the 
street.  But  she  curls  it  on  papers  every 
morning,  just  the  same.  Trying  to  look 
young!  You  fool!  can't  you  see  he  hasn't 
eyes  for  you  any  more?  Oh,  I've  seen  the 
look  in  his  eyes  many  a  night  when  he'd  be 
sitting  out  on  the  piazza  with  me,  his  wife, 
but  looking  over  to  your  old  house — that  you 
don't  paint  once  in  five  years — hoping  to 
103 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

catch  a  glimpse  of  you;  and  because  you 
never  spoke  to  each  other,  do  you  suppose  I 
didn't  know  what  he  was  thinking  of  and 
didn't  hate  you?  I  did;  but  I  don't  now. 
I've  been  jealous  of  you  for  twenty  years; 
but  I'm  not  jealous  of  you  now.  Do  you 
hear,  Hester  Morrill?  I'm  not  jealous  of 
you,  now!"  She  barked  the  sentence  aloud, 
in  a  spasm  of  passion,  forgetting  the  open 
window.  Was  it  possible  that  the  other 
woman  heard?  She  lifted  her  eyes.  They 
shone,  gentle,  sad  and  quiet;  and  there  was 
in  them,  as  they  fell  full  on  Elsie,  some- 
thing sorrowful  but  not  angry.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  Elsie  felt  that  Hester 
pitied  her.  It  was  a  queer,  heavy  emotion 
that  made  her  involuntarily  lower  her  own 
gaze.  When,  with  an  instant  reaction  of 
defiance,  she  looked  up  again  Hester  was 
gone ;  and,  what  was  most  queer,  the  door- 
way looked  empty  and  lonesome.  Then  she 
was  conscious  that  Hester,  after  fifteen 
years  of  silence,  had  nodded  and  smiled. 
"I  almost  wish  I'd  beckoned  to  her,"  she 
thought,  half  dazed  by  her  own  mood,  "I 
believe  she  would  have  come  over.  It 
104 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

would  have  been  fun  to  see  her  wince 
when  I  talked  about  how  pretty  Sadie  is. " 
She  caught  her  breath  softly,  and  her  head 
rolled  as  she  used  to  roll  it  in  unbearable 
pain  (at  night  when  she  would  not  moan  for 
fear  of  waking  Ben),  while  she  whispered: 
"I'd  love  to  kill  that  Sadie!" 

A  spasm  of  pain  seized  her  even  in  the 
words,  and  for  a  few  moments  her  physical 
torment  was  too  acute  to  let  her  mind  get 
away  from  it;  but  at  last  the  breath  came 
painfully  back  to  her  body,  the  overtaxed 
heart  beat  more  quietly,  and  she  took  up 
her  needlework.  "I'm  only  killing  myself 
the  quicker,"  she  said;  "and  I  would  like 
to  get  Ben's  underclothes  mended  up  and 
everything  ready  for  him  for  winter,  if  I 
could,  first.  She's  a  careless,  bold-faced  jig 
that's  let  her  aunt  mend  her  stockings  while 
she  flirts  with  the  boys.  And  Ben's  never 
had  to  ask  for  a  button. ' ' 

An  hour  went  by — two  hours.  She  sat, 
propped  on  her  pillows,  sewing  most  of  the 
time,  but,  occasionally,  from  sheer  weak- 
ness, the  needle  would  slip  out  of  her  limp 
fingers.  At  times,  also,  she  flung  the  work 
105 


A   JEALOUS  WOMAN 

aside  with  a  groan  and  wrung  her  hands  and 
swayed  her  body,  like  one  in  a  torment.  A 
score  of  vivid  emotions  wrenched  her  fea- 
tures ;  alike  only  in  the  misery  that  was  in  all 
of  them.  Sometimes  it  was  wild  to  frenzy, 
and  she  had  the  face  of  a  cruel  maniac; 
sometimes  it  was  more  remorseful  than 
angry  and  the  tears  ran  down  her  thin 
cheeks. 

She  was  in  this  softer,  kinder  frame,  when 
the  rattle  of  wheels  penetrated  the  room. 
"I  won't  look  out,"  she  thought;  "I  wont 
spy  on  him. ' ' 

The  wheels  stopped.  She  craned  her  neck 
and  pressed  her  face  against  the  wire  screen. 
She  could  see  the  streak  of  yellow  roadway 
drawn  straight  through  the  green  corn-fields. 
She  could  see  the  modest  brown  house  of  the 
Merrills,  a  rectangle  and  an  ell  with  a  narrow 
piazza  in  the  angle.  But  there  was  no 
buggy  in  sight.  "He  has  stopped  at  the 
lower  gate, ' '  she  reflected  bitterly ;  and,  not 
for  the  first  time,  she  called  him  a  coward. 

"But  I  won't  say  a  mean  word   to  him 
this  time,"    she  added.     "I'm  too   sick   to 
quarrel  with  him.     I  will  be  good." 
106 


A  JEALOUS   WOMAN 

The  buggy-wheels  rattled  again.  The 
horse  came  in  sight,  then  the  buggy,  in  which 
sat  her  husband  alone.  He  looked  up  at 
the  window  and  lifted  his  hat. 

She  did  not  return  the  salute;  he  saw 
only  the  averted  oval  of  his  wife's  cheek; 
she  saw  Sadie  Merrill's  pink  skirt  behind 
the  flower  beds.  She  could  not  smile  on 
her  husband,  but  she  gnawed  her  under-lip. 
"No,  I  won't  say  a  word!"  she  resolved. 

She  could  hear  his  step  on  the  stair.  It 
was  the  heavy,  springless  step  of  a  tired, 
elderly  man.  He  entered  the  chamber  with 
a  diffident  air.  "Well,  I've  been  to  town," 
said  he. 

"So  I  see;  you  and  Sadie  Morrill;  I  saw 
you  driving  off  together,"  answered  Elsie. 
She  had  meant  to  control  herself;  but  at 
this  moment,  happening  to  look  across  the 
street,  she  saw  Sadie  come  blithely  out  and 
sink  luxuriously  in  the  hammock,  where  she 
began  to  swing  and  read  and  eat  candy  out 
of  a  pink  box ;  and  an  access  of  rage  drove 
the  words  out  of  Elsie's  heart  and  fired  the 
tone. 

The  man  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
107 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

nearest  chair;  he  was,  no  doubt,  as  desper- 
ately uncomfortable  as  he  looked.  He  was 
a  small  man.  He  had  not  grown  stout  with 
years,  but  rather  had  withered.  When  he 
was  twenty-eight,  the  handsome  young 
scholar  whose  face  haunted  the  girls'  dreams, 
he  wore  a  mustache  with  curly  ends.  Now,  at 
fifty,  he  still  wore  a  mustache  with  curly  ends, 
although  his  shaven  cheeks  were  wrinkled 
and  hollow  and  the  mustache  gray.  Ben 
Rogers  looked  older  than  his  years  or  his 
farmer's  life  demanded;  he  looked  crushed 
and  tired.  His  eyes,  which  had  been  full 
of  fire,  were  dull. 

"Yes,  their  horse  is  lame;  they've  only 
got  one,  now, "  he  answered  without  resent- 
ment, fingering  his  hat  and  talking  into  it. 
"It  seemed  unneighborly  to  let  her  walk 
in  the  heat.  I  was  going  to  town,  any- 
how." 

"Did  you  have  to  carry  her  back,  too?" 

' '  I  suppose  the  walk  back  is  just  as  sunny. ' ' 

Elsie  Rogers   laughed   spitefully.      "Did 

you  have  to  give  her  candy  because  it  was 

sunny?"     He    shot   a    glance   over    to    the 

piazza,  and  his  tanned  cheek  flushed.     "Or 

108 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

perhaps  you  didn't  give  her  the  candy;  she 
has  lots  of  other  beaux,  you  know. ' ' 

"She  may  have  the  entire  university  for 
anything  /  care,  undergraduates,  laws  and 
medics — and  dentals  thrown  in!"  cried 
Rogers. 

"Did  you  give  her  the  candy?" 

"Well,  if  I  did;  now,  Elsie—" 

He  was  arrested  by  the  change  in  her 
face,  it  was  so  ghastly.  He  got  on  his  feet 
to  help  her;  but  the  attack,  whatever  its 
nature,  which  had  squeezed  the  color  out  of 
her  skin,  passed  as  quickly  as  it  came.  The 
blue  shadow  faded  away  from  her  mouth; 
she  even  smiled.  "Ben,"  said  she,  in  a 
changed  tone,  "do  you  know  I'm  going  to 
die?" 

He  came  over  to  her  before  he  answered, 
and  took  a  chair  by  her  side.  His  face  was 
still  flushed.  "Don't  talk  that  way/  my 
dear,"  he  said,  awkwardly.  "We — we'll 
change  doctors  if  you  say  so. ' ' 

"It's  easier  to  change  doctors  than 
diseases,  Ben.  Oh,  I  know ;  and  you  know 
too.  I  don't  need  to  ask  you  and  have  you 
try  to  lie  to  me.  You  knew  before  I  did. 

109 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

You  haven't  been  cross  with  me  for  a  month. 
I  saw  you  out  walking  in  the  pasture  with 
Doctor  a  month  ago  Sunday ;  and  when  you 
came  in  you  kissed  me.  You  hadn't  kissed 
me — first — for  a  long  while.  And  that  night 
you  didn't  sit  out  on  the  piazza,  and  smoke. 
You  came  right  up  and  fanned  me.  It  was  a 
hot  night.  I  was  so  pleased.  But  I've 
thought  it  out,  since.  Ben,  there's  a  lot  to 
think  of  when  one  is  going  to  die.  I  had 
the  lawyer  up  and  made  my  will.  Do  you 
know  what  I  did?" 

4 '  I  have  never  asked  you  about  any  of  the 
wills  you  have  made,  Elsie,"  said  he,  with 
a  show  of  pride,  the  first  sign  of  emotion 
given  by  him. 

"I  left  you  everything — the  farm, the  bank- 
stock,  the  town  lots,  every  cent  I  have  in 
the  world;  it's  more  than  sixty  thousand, 
Ben;  everything — so  long's  you  remain  a 
widower. ' ' 

His  hand  did  not  quiver  on  her  hair;  in 
fact,  he  smiled  a  little. 

"So  I  presumed,  Elsie;  that's  very  gen- 
erous of  you ;  but  I  hope  you  will  be  long 
spared  to  me," 


A  JEALOUS    WOMAN 

"You  can  go  back  to  town  and  be  a  profes- 
sor again  and  write  like  you  used  to  want — " 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  he  interrupted,  wincing; 
"no,  that's  over  and  gone.  I  can't  pick  up 
a  profession.  They  wouldn't  have  me.  I'm 
a  back  number.  The  young  men  would 
laugh  at  me.  The  world  has  been  going  on 
while  I  have  rusted  by  the  wayside.  Besides, 
I  like  farming.  I've  done  pretty  well  at  it 
— with  your  money. ' ' 

He  took  a  light  tone  over  it;  nevertheless 
she  could  see  that  she  was  touching  the 
quick.  She  flashed  out:  "You're  a  dozen 
times  better  than  those  young  upstarts; 
you've  sense,  you've  experience,  you've — " 

"I  haven't  technique.  I  don't  know  the 
new  methods.  Why,  my  dear,  fancy  your- 
self back  in  a  hospital.  You  were  a  good 
nurse — no  one  knows  that  better  than  I ;  but 
where  would  you  be  in  a  modern  hospital 
with  the  new  antiseptic  methods?  It's  the 
same  with  me.  Do  you  understand?" 

She  understood,  whether  she  would  con- 
fess it  or  not ;  and  he  perceived  as  much. 

"Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well,"  he  went  on 
in  his  patient  voice,  dull  like  his  eyes;  "all 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

my  fine  dreams  might  have  come  to  nothing, 
and  here  I  have  at  least  made  two  blades  of 
grass  grow  where  only  one  blade  would 
have  grown.  That's  something. " 

"Confess,"  she  cried,  suddenly  raising 
herself  on  one  elbow  and  speaking  shrilly, 
while  her  eyes  burned — "confess,  I've  been 
a  clog  on  you.  I  made  you  leave  your  pro- 
fession, I  wouldn't  let  you  go  into  politics — ' ' 

"Thereby  no  doubt  saving  my  money  and 
my  time,  and  probably  my  self-respect. 
Don't  reproach  yourself  for  that,  Elsie; 
you've  no  need." 

"I've  estranged  you  from  every  old  friend 
you  had — " 

'Now,  Elsie,  what  is  the  use  of  going  into 
that  again?  I'm  not  accusing  you.  You'll 
bring  on  an  attack.  There,  there!"  He 
tried  clumsily  to  soothe  her,  and  she  burst 
into  rasping  laughter. 

"Oh,  how  reasonable  you  are !  how  cool  and 
calm  and  reasonable  and  forbearing!  Ben!" 

He  jumped.  "Yes?  what's  the  matter?" 
He  looked  bewildered. 

"Ben,  I  know  I've  been  a  clog  on  you.  I 
know  I've  been  jealous  of  yc  '  and  made 

112 


A   JEALOUS   WOMAN 

you  ashamed  and  unhappy.  Our  life's  been 
a  hell;  do  you  know  why?  It's  your  fault! 
Because  you  never  loved  me!  If  you  had 
loved  me  and  I  had  been  sure  of  it,  once 
sure  of  it,  I'd  have  been  able  to  control 
myself.  But  you  never  did  love  me — " 

"Elsie,"  said  her  husband,  with  an  effort 
at  sternness,  "I  married  you — " 

"You  married  me  because  I  asked  you — 
oh,  let  me  alone!  I'm  going  to  talk  it  out, 
this  once  more.  You  were  sick  and  weak, 
and  I'd  saved  your  life,  and  you'd  quarreled 
with  your  girl,  and  you  took  me  to  comfort 
you.  And,  at  first,  when  I  was  young  and 
pretty  and  a  slave  at  your  feet,  if  you'd  only 
let  other  women  alone,  you  had  some  kind  of 
feeling  for  me;  but  it  wasn't  love.  Not 
your  soul's  love,  which  I  wanted.  And  I 
knew  it,  and  I  raged  against  it;  and  the 
more  I  gave  way  to  the  devil  in  me,  the 
stronger  he  grew.  Ben,  he's  too  strong  for 
me,  now;  he  won't  let  me  be  kind  and 
patient  to  you  the  little  time  I've  got  left  to 
be  with  you.  I  want  to  be — O  God!  I  do 
want  to  be !  I  want  to  leave  some  memories 
of  me  that  will  soften  your  heart  to  me ;  but 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

I  can't.  It  chokes  me!  I  keep  seeing  you 
with  other  women,  young  women,  pretty, 
laughing,  happy,  glad  I'm  out  of  the  way! 
You're  glad,  too!  No,  you  shan't  touch 
me;  you've  killed  me!  The  doctor  said — 
excitement — " 

"Elsie,  do  be  sensible,"  begged  the  man. 

"I  wish  I  hated  jo\\\" 

Ben  only  proffered  a  glass  in  which  he  had 
poured  a  few  drops  from  a  vial,  and  said  as 
kindly  as  he  could,  that  she  must  not  excite 
herself,  it  would  be  bad. 

She  struck  the  glass  from  his  hand  and 
burst  into  screams  and  wild  laughter. 
Down-stairs  two  women  exchanged  glances. 

"It's  kinder  awful,"  said  Hulda;  "do  you 
t'ink  the  pain  is  so  dreadful?" 

"  'Tain't  pain,"  said  Susan  Pierce,  "there 
wasn't  made  the  pain  could  get  a  screech 
outer  her.  Now,  she's  stopped — that's  the 
pain!" 

She  had  stopped — suddenly,  as  Ben  at  his 
wits'  end  was  about  to  leave  the  room  and 
summon  Susan;  she  ceased  her  clamor  and 
gasped,  "Oh,  don't  go,  Ben.  It's  the  pain 
again!  Please  do  something!" 


A  JEALOUS   WOMAN 

He  was  quick  to  do  something  now.  He 
held  her  in  his  arms,  he  administered  the 
remedies  with  which  all  the  household  were 
grown  familiar;  and  in  the  midst  of  it  her 
marvelous  patience,  in  so  strange  contrast 
with  the  crazy  abandon  of  a  moment  pre- 
vious, extorted  his  admiration.  It  was  easy 
for  him  now  to  whisper  tender  words,  for 
there  was  a  moment  when  her  soul  seemed 
slipping  away  from  him.  His  own  was 
chilled  by  the  thought,  Had  he  brought  on 
this  attack?  But  it  passed;  she  was  able  to 
smile  wanly  up  in  his  face,  and  to  lay  a 
feeble  hand  on  his  cheek,  murmuring: 
' ' Poor  Ben !  I'm  so  sorry  I  was  bad  to  you. ' ' 

There  had  always  been  a  charm  about  her 
in  her  gentler  moments;  even  now,  faded 
and  ill  as  she  was,  it  asserted  its  power  over 
him.  Impulsively,  after  years  of  struggle, 
in  a  single  moment  of  pity  he  gave  up  the 
contest.  "Elsie,"  he  said,  "would  you  feel 
better  if — if  I  promised  you — what  you  have 
asked  me?" 

A  light  of  rapture  transfigured  her  face 
until  it  was  young  again.  "Oh,  Ben!"  she 
breathed,  faintly. 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

That  was   all;   but  it   was   enough.     He 
kissed  her.  "I  promise  you,  Elsie, "said  he. 


Susan  Pierce  sat  with  the  invalid  that 
afternoon.  Susan  hemmed  a  blue  apron. 
Her  lips  were  compressed. 

"How  did  Mr.  Rogers  like  his  peas?"  was 
Mrs.  Rogers's  first  question. 

"He  didn't  tech  'em,"  replied  Susan, 
crustily,  "nor  the  ice-cream,  neither.  He 
said  he  guessed  the  heat  made  him  sick,  and 
he  only  drunk  a  cup  of  coffee — forgot  the 
cream  to  that,  too."  She  watched  the  cloud 
gather  over  Mrs.  Rogers's  face  with  a  certain 
pity.  "Can't  help  it,"  she  thought,  "that 
man's  been  made  to  do  something  he  didn't 
want  to,  and  I  guess  I  know  what ;  and  he 
ain't  got  nobody  to  help  him  but  me. "  Her 
sharp  eyes  had  taken  in  the  whole  room, 
not  missing  a  charred  document  in  the  grate. 
Elsie's  glance  ran  after  hers.  "That's  my 
will,"  she  said,  using  the  reckless  frankness 
that  was  part  of  her  untamed  nature;  "it 
wasn't  just  to  Mr.  Rogers's  liking,  so  I 
burned  it,  this  morning." 

116 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

Susan  thought  a  nod  quite  enough  for  the 
demands  of  respectful  sympathy. 

Elsie  lay  back  on  her  lounge,  too  weak  to 
work.  She  idly  watched  the  sunlight  flicker- 
ing through  the  maples  in  front  of  the 
Morrill  yard  and  the  flutter  of  the  pink 
dimity  skirts  on  the  lawn.  Sadie  was  play- 
ing croquet  with  a  student  who  lived  in 
town,  hence  had  not  flown  with  the  rest,  after 
commencement.  Her  laughter  rippled  above 
his  deeper  notes.  He  laughed  a  good  deal. 

Elsie  watched  them ;  and  a  wave  of  bitter- 
ness rose  again  in  her  soul.  The  promise 
which  had  so  comforted  her  had  made  him 
wretched.  He  regretted  that  unfeeling  girl. 
She  turned  to  Susan,  who  sewed  on  with  as 
little  emotion  as  an  Indian. 

"Susan,"  said  she,  "did  you  ever  know 
any  men  who  promised  their  wives  not  to 
marry  again?" 

"Yes'm,"  said  Susan. 

"And  did  they  keep  their  word?" 

"Not  them  I  knowed,"  said  Susan,  after 

a     conscientious     interval     of    meditation; 

"well,  I  only  knowed  three,  but  a  neighbor 

of  mine  knowed  two  she  used  to  tell  me 

"7 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

'bout.  They  all  married  within  the  year. 
I  dunno  what  excuses  they  give  to  their 
consciences,  'cept  old  Captain  White;  he 
told  me,  himself,  he  promised  his  wife  'cause 
she  was  awful  sick,  and  says  he,  'I  told  her 
that  jest  like  I'd  have  told  her  any  other 
lie,  to  make  her  easy!'  I  guess  it's  nature's 
to  blame  more'n  the  men." 

Elsie  made  no  comment.  She  asked  no 
more  questions;  but  she  remembered  the 
old  man  that  she  knew  in  her  childhood, 
whose  wife  had  extorted  such  a  promise. 
He  had  been  faithful  to  his  word ;  but  she 
thought  of  him  with  no  lightening  of  the 
weight  on  her  heart ;  for  it  was  common  talk 
that  his  wife's  unmarked,  neglected  grave 
was  the  outward  sign  of  his  resentment. 
In  truth,  it  was  rumored  that  he  had  said, 
once,  that  he  hated  his  wife.  Would  Ben 
come  to  hate  her  as  well  as  those  invisible 
fetters  which  she  had  bound  on  him?" 

"Susan,"  said  Elsie,  "you  go  to  town  on 
the  street  cars  and  have  Judge  Black  come 
back  with  you. ' ' 

"Right  now?"  said  Susan. 

"Fast's  you  can." 

118 


A   JEALOUS  WOMAN 

There  was  nothing  left  for  Susan  but  to 
go,  querying  within  herself  whether  she  had 
not  hurt  rather  than  helped  Ben  Rogers's 
cause. 

Elsie  lay  back  on  the  lounge.  She 
suffered,  but  the  forces  in  her  being  were 
too  low  for  any  paroxysm.  "I  guess  I'm 
beaten,"  she  said,  drearily.  "Oh,  if  God 
would  only  let  me  stop  loving  Ben  and  die 
in  peace!" 

The  laughter  of  the  young  people  opposite 
came  in  more  clearly.  She  hated  their 
youth,  their  gayety,  their  rampant  health. 
"I've  got  to  die  and  leave  him  to  that 
girl!"  she  thought;  "he  wont  keep  his  word 
— and  the  will's  burned!" 

She  saw  Hester  Morrill  come  to  the  window 
and  drop  the  shade.  A  moment  after  Sadie 
and  the  young  man  came  on  to  the  porch. 
He  was  persuading  her  to  go  somewhere 
with  him,  to  some  merrymaking. 

"I  don't  know  what  Aunt  Hetty  will 
say,"  said  she;  and  he  answered:  "Oh, 
the  old  lady  is  all  right ! ' ' 

"The  old  lady!"  Why  yes,  Hester  was  not 
young,  in  spite  of  her  trim  figure  and  her 
119 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

careful  curls.  She  wondered  if  Hester  had 
overheard.  Then,  she  saw  the  fingers  of  a 
hand  pull  the  curtain  a  little  further,  from 
within ;  and  she  knew  that  Hester  had  over- 
heard. The  young  people  were  sitting  in 
the  hammock,  eating  candy  out  of  the  pink 
box.  "I'm  going  in  to  ask  Auntie  to  make 
some  lemonade  for  us,"  exclaimed  the  girl. 
She  went  in  and  came  back ;  and  after  a  little 
while  Miss  Hester  appeared  and  left  them  a 
salver  with  a  generous  jug  of  lemonade. 

They  sat  on  the  piazza  for  more  than  an 
hour;  and  Elsie  could  see  the  aunt  weeding 
in  the  garden.  A  strange  feeling  took  pos- 
session of  her.  She  sided  with  the  elderly 
woman  who  had  lost  everything,  against  this 
brutal  and  greedy  youth. 

For  an  hour  or  more  she  lay,  thinking 
deeply  but  quietly.  Then  the  lawyer  came. 

Rogers  heard  of  the  lawyer's  presence 
when  he  came.  He  was  not  frank  like  his 
wife ;  he  merely  sank  his  gaze  to  the  ground 
and  his  lips  twitched.  Susan  Pierce  con- 
tinued: "She  passed  a  pretty  good,  quiet 
afternoon,  I  guess.  '  Bout  five  she  sent  for 
me  and  had  me  take  the  biggest  bronze 


A   JEALOUS  WOMAN 

turkey  over  to  Miss  Merrill's  with  her  com- 
pliments." 

Ben  started  violently.  "Did — did  Miss 
Morrill  accept  it?" 

"Yes,  sir;  and  she  sent  word  could  she 
come  to  see  Mrs.  Rogers,  and  Mrs.  Rogers 
she  sent  word  she'd  be  glad  to  see  her." 

Ben  slowly  let  the  breath  that  he  had 
drawn  into  his  lungs  leave  him,  in  a  deep 
sigh.  "Thank  you,  Susan,"  said  he,  and 
turned  away. 

He  found  his  wife  quiet  and  gentle;  but 
plainly  was  not  disposed  to  talk;  nor  did 
he  disturb  her. 

In  the  morning  Hester  came.  "And  she 
came  jest  as  ca'm  and  easy  as  if  she'd  been 
coming  right  along  all  these  fifteen  years. 
But  I'd  give  a  good  deal,"  said  Susan,  "to 
hear  what's  going  on  behind  that  door,  this 
minute!" 

However,  she  could  not  hear;  Hester 
Morrill  never  told  any  living  creature.  She 
sat  down  by  the  lounge  wheeled  to  its  old 
place.  Elsie  noticed  that  she  wore  a  black 
gown  and  her  hair  was  drawn  smoothly  back 
from  her  forehead. 


A   JEALOUS   WOMAN 

"Did  you  think  it  was.  queer  I  sent  for 
you?"  said  Elsie. 

"I  don't  think  it  was  really  queer,"  said 
Hester.  ' '  I  was  glad  to  come. ' ' 

"I  sent  for  you, ' '  Elsie  continued  in  a  low 
voice,  "because  I'm  beaten.  You  know  I've 
hated  you — ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Hester;  "but  I  know  you 
don't  hate  me  now." 

"No.  There's  only  one  person  I  hate 
now.  It  isn't  you.  You  are  sorry  for  me." 

"I  am  from  my  heart." 

"Yet  you  loved  Ben,  and  you  know  I've 
made  him  miserable.  He  has  had  no  career, 
and  but  for  me  he  might  have  been  almost 
anything.  He  has  had  no  friends,  no 
ambition;  I've  ruined  his  life;  you  can't 
deny  it. ' ' 

"You  never  meant  to  hurt  him,"  said 
Hester. 

"No,  you're  right,  I  never  did.  One  way 
no  woman  could  have  worked  harder  for  him. 
But  he  said  to  me  once,  that  a  man  wanted 
something  more  than  money  in  the  bank  and 
a  comfortable  home  and  a  good  dinner.  I 
didn't  give  it  to  him.  I  don't  believe  there 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

was  ever  anybody  so  unhappy  in  this  world 
as  I've  been.  But  the  Bible's  right,  jealousy 
is  crueler  than  the  grave.  No  matter  what 
I'd  resolve,  the  moment  I  saw  him  caring 
for  anything  but  me,  I  Jiad  to  tear  it  away 
from  him.  Now,  I  am  going  to  die,  and  I 
want  to  tear  it  away  from  him  worse  than 
ever.  Hester  Morrill,  did  he  really  love 
you?" 

' ' I  thought  he  did, ' '  said  Hester.  She  did 
not  flush,  she  who  had  guarded  her  secret 
for  twenty  years;  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  absolute  truthfulness  of  this  doomed 
woman  compelled  an  absolute  truthfulness 
from  her. 

"I  never  thought  he  loved  me,"  said 
Elsie.  "Oh,  I  was  young  and  pretty,  and 
you  know  what  men  are ;  he  had  a  feeling 
for  me  for  a  little  while.  But  when  that 
died  out  there  was  nothing  left.  He  was 
sorry  for  me  and  he  was  afraid  of  me. 
That's  all.  And  I  loved  him  so  I  was  will- 
ing to  take  loving  words  and  caresses  that 
I'd  begged  tor.  Hester,  do  you  think,  you  that 
lost  him  but  kept  his — his  respect,  do  you 
think  you  suffered  like  me  that  won  him?" 
123 


A  JEALOUS   WOMAN 

"No,"  said  Hester.  There  were  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

"And  now,  I've  got  to  die,  and  he  won't 
have  me  to  care  for  him.  Hester,  he  isn't 
a  man  to  take  care  of  himself.  He  needs 
somebody.  He'll  lose  money;  he'll  miss  his 
comforts  that  he  makes  so  light  of  because 
they  have  been  as  steady  as  the  sun.  Yet, 
knowing  that,  I've  made  him  promise  not  to 
marry  again.  I've  thought  it  out;  I've 
thought  of  killing  him — " 

She  hesitated  and  peered  keenly  at  Hester. 

"You  poor  soul,"  said  Hester,  "what  good 
would  that  do?  You  can't  kill  his  soul;  and 
you'll  have  to  meet  him,  you  with  that 
awful  sin  on  you — " 

"I'd  be  more  afraid  to  meet  him  than  I 
would  to  meet  God,"  cried  Elsie. 

"I  suppose  so.  You  oughtn't  to  be; 
but  you're  a  woman.  I  should  be  in  your 
place." 

"And  I've  thought  of  killing  her." 

A   flush   that  burned  for  a  moment  on 

Hester's  pale  cheek  and  then  ebbed  away, 

told  that  she  did  not  need  a  name.     "What 

would  be  the  good   to  stain   your  soul  by 

124 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

making  him  care  for  her  the  more — if  he 
does  care  for  her. ' ' 

"Then,  Hester,  what  am  I  going  to  do?" 

Hester  bent  her  head;  and  Elsie,  with  a 
certain  awe,  was  aware  that  she  was  praying. 
When  she  lifted  her  face  it  was  no  longer 
sad;  but  on  it  glowed  a  lofty  flame  which 
poor  Elsie  could  not  understand,  but  which 
instinctively  she  reverenced.  She  groped 
for  Hester's  hand  and  held  it.  "My  dear," 
said  Hester,  "do  you  love  Ben  well  enough 
to  want  him  to  be  happy,  even  if  you  are 
not  the  one  to  give  him  happiness?" 

Elsie  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  can't.  I 
want  to  make  him  happy  myself." 

' '  But  you  want  him  to  remember  you  with 
kindness,  with  regret.  Nobody  can  watch 
over  him  the  way  you  have.  Why,  I — "  the 
flush  came  back  a  second — "I  have  been 
grateful  to  you  when  he  was  sick,  seeing 
how  you  cared  for  him.  Do  you  suppose  he 
won't  miss  that  care?  Don't  poison  the 
sorrow  he  will  feel  by  trying  to  chain  him 
to  your  grave !  Be  good  to  him,  be  gener- 
ous, win  his  gratitude  and  his  respect — "  . 

"Do  you  know,"  interrupted  Elsie,  "that 
125 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

you  are  pleading  against  yourself  for  Sadie 
Morrill?" 

"I  am  pleading  for  his  future,  for  freedom 
to  choose,  which  is  more  to  any  manly  man 
than  anything  else.  How  do  you  know  she 
will  not  make  him  happy?  How  do  you 
know  he  will  choose  her?  Let  him  be  free. " 

"And  give  him  the  money,  too?" 

"He's  worked  for  it  as  well  as  you." 

Elsie's  face  remained  hard. 

"And  could  you  endure  to  leave  him, 
knowing  he  would  be  poor  and  have  to 
begin  life  over  at  fifty,  and  maybe  lack  the 
luxuries  you  have  made  necessary  to  him, 
have  to  pinch  and  slave — " 

"Stop!"  Elsie  cried;  "you  know  I  can't. 
You  know  I  am  beaten." 

"No,"  said  Hester;  "it  is  you  that  have 
conquered." 

Elsie  smiled  grimly.  She  lay  silent;  all 
at  once  her  face  changed.  "Send  for  Ben," 
she  whispered. 

But  when  Ben  came  she  was  too  ill  to 
speak  to  him.  There  was  hurrying  outside 
where  the  colt  was  being  led  into  the  shafts 
of  the  lightest  buggy  to  go  for  the  doctor. 

126 


A  JEALOUS   WOMAN 

Within  Susan  and  Hulda  stepped  softly,  and 
Ben  turned  to  Hester  with  no  thought  of  the 
strangeness  of  her  presence.  "She's  so 
patient,"  he  said;  "she  always  was." 

Elsie  opened  her  eyes.  "I  made  plenty 
of  fuss,  Ben,"  she  gasped,  "but  not  about 
pain."  There  was  a  different  quality  in  her 
voice;  it  was  hoarse  and  dry  and  small,  as 
if  it  came  from  a  distance.  Her  features 
had  sharpened.  Susan  Pierce,  who  was  in 
the  room,  turned  away  and  threw  her  apron 
over  her  face. 

"Why,  if  that  isn't  Susan,  and  she's  cry- 
ing," said  Elsie.  "Is — that — it?  I  guess  it 
must  be,  for  I  don't  seem  to  mind  any  more, 
Hester.  Ben,  I  give  you  back  your  promise. 
And  the  will — send  after  it  quick ;  I  want  to 
destroy  it.  Send  after  it  quick!" 

But  after  these  few  words  she  lapsed  into 
a  lethargy  from  which  the  doctor  could  not 
rouse  her. 

The  moments  of  her  life  dwindled. 
The  doctor,  with  professional  calm,  sat  in 
the  shadow,  narrowly  watching  the  patient, 
yet  his  thoughts  involuntarily  straying  to 
the  chance  of  his  election  to  the  vacant 
127 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

chair  in  the  medical  department.  Susan 
and  Hulda  watched  quietly  in  the  hall. 
Hester  sat  on  one  side  of  the  bed,  and  Ben 
on  the  other;  and  to  neither  did  it  seem 
strange  that  they  should  be  keeping  this 
darkling  watch  together.  Ben  supported  his 
wife  against  his  breast  and  fanned  her. 
What  visions  of  his  wrecked  married  life,  of 
the  poisoned  happiness,  the  worse  than 
useless  devotion,  the  strife  and  the  heart- 
break, were  drifting  in  formless  pictures 
before  his  hot  eyes,  who  shall  tell !  At  times, 
his  lip  quivered,  and  he  kissed  her  hand. 

There  was  the  noise  of  horse's  hoofs  and 
the  rattle  of  wheels  in  the  yard. 

Elsie  opened  her  eyes.  "Susan,"  said 
she,  "don't  cry.  I  didn't  think  you  minded." 
Her  voice  was  fainter ;  she  paused  between 
the  words.  "I  was  so  — busy — with  Ben — I 
— didn't  think — I  missed  other  things. ' '  She 
leaned  her  head  closer  to  her  husband. 

"Is  that  the  lawyer?  Destroy — the — will. 
Hester,  you're  right.  If  you  —  bend 
closer,  Ben,  I  want  to  whisper — "  She  whis- 
pered it  in  his  ears.  "If  you  want — to — 
marry  Sadie — " 

128 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

"That  little  fool!"  cried  Ben,  "-never! 
Oh,  darling,  don't  think  of  her!" 

Dying  as  she  was,  Elsie  smiled.  "Oh,  I'm 
so  happy!"  she  sighed.  She  never  spoke 
again.  The  lawyer,  who  was  already  on  the 
threshold,  advanced,  saying:  "You  wish  me 
to  destroy  the  will,  Mrs.  Rogers?"  but  she 
only  smiled  and  stirred  her  head  a  little  on 
her  husband's  breast,  like  a  child  nestling 
its  head  for  an  easier  sleep.  "Don't  disturb 
her,"  said  Ben,  sternly. 

"I  think,  if  there  is  anything  of  impor- 
tance," began  the  doctor,  after  a  single 
glance,  "now — " 

"No"  said  Ben.  He  bent  to  whisper  in 
her  ear ;  his  tears  dropped  on  her  face. 

She  smiled  again,  with  a  little  soft, 
shivering  sigh,  and  was  still. 

The  clock  ticked  in  the  hall.  The  lawyer 
stood  in  the  doorway,  the  yellow  envelope  in 
his  hand;  and  out  under  the  eaves  a  thrush 
was  pouring  a  wealth  of  joyous  melody  from 
his  tiny  throat.  The  doctor  stepped  gently 
to  the  side  of  the  husband  and  wife.  His 
eyes  met  Hester's.  She  rose  and  motioned 
to  the  others  to  leave  the  room. 
129 


A  JEALOUS   WOMAN 

"I'm  sorry  to  intrude  on  you,  Mr.  Rogers," 
said  the  lawyer — it  was  half  an  hour  later 
and  they  were  sitting  in  the  little  parlor 
below — "but  there  are  Mrs.  Rogers 's  instruc- 
tions regarding  the  will.  It  is  a  question — " 

"There  is  no  question.  Let  my  wife's 
will  stand." 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  know  the  pro- 
visions. I  fancy  they  will  not  be  objection- 
able to  you.  After  a  few  small  legacies  to 
servants,  she  leaves  you  her  entire  estate  on 
condition  that  you  do  not  marry  any  one — 
other  than  Miss  Hester  Morrill,  who  appears 
to  be  a  valued  friend." 

Ben  did  not  answer;  but  at  that  moment 
Elsie  need  not  have  feared  to  read  his  heart 


130 


A  Problem    in    Honor 


THE  doctor's  boy  caught  Miss  Con  way's 
surrey  in  the  West  End  and  handed 
Mrs.    Reynolds'  note    to    her.      Miss 
Con  way  read  it.      There   were  only  a  few 
lines  hastily  scratched  with  a  lead  pencil  on  a 
card  and  pushed  into  an  envelope.  They  ran : 

"Dear  Peggy: — My  brother  feels  worse  and  is  very 
anxious  to  see  you ;  I  am  afraid  the  end  is  near,  but 
perhaps  not — it  is  so  hard  to  tell. 

"ANN." 

'  'Tell  Mrs.  Reynolds  I  will  be  there  at  once, 
as  fast  as  we  can  drive, ' '  said  Miss  Conway ; 
and  the  doctor's  boy  sped  away  on  his  wheel. 
"To  Mr.  Wain wright's, "  she  added  to  the 
coachman,  who  touched  the  horse  lightly 
with  the  whip. 

The  coachman  was  a  handsome  young 
Irishman,  smartly  although  soberly  dressed 
in  a  plum-colored  livery  exactly  matching 
the  lining  and  body  of  the  carriage.  He 


A   PROBLEM   IN    HONOR 

wore  no  glaring  pomp  of  white  doeskin  and 
top  boots,  but  his  coat  fitted  perfectly  and 
his  shoes  and  his  linen  were  speckless. 

The  lady  who  sat  in  the  carriage  might  be 
thirty-five  or  she  might  be  forty- five.  She 
was  undeniably  handsome;  indeed,  for  her 
graceful  and  gentle  charm,  beautiful  might 
seem  a  truer  as  well  as  a  kinder  word.  She 
kept  the  girlish  slenderness  of  her  figure; 
her  smooth,  pale  olive  skin  only  showed  her 
years  in  a  few  faint  lines  at  the  corners  of 
her  dark  eyes  and  in  her  low  forehead.  Her 
hair  was  a  very  lovely  gray.  She  was  a 
great  lady  in  the  little  city,  and  several 
ragged  boys  and  girls  came  out  from  the 
bakery  and  gazed  upon  her  admiringly. 
Two  boys  joined  them  presently;  and  the 
boys  grinned.  They  had  no  admiration  in 
their  grin;  but  rather  what  one  critic  of 
human  nature  is  pleased  to  call  the  savage 
emotion  of  humor. 

The  West  End  of  Fairport  is  not  a  fashion- 
able quarter.  The  shops  are  small  and  there 
is  an  undue  proportion  of  saloons.  One  of 
these  was  opposite  the  carriage.  It  was  of 
brick  with  a  wooden  fagade,  which  was 
132 


A  PROBLEM   IN    HONOR 

painted  a  vivid  crimson.  In  the  doorway 
appeared  a  white-aproned  barkeeper  with 
elaborately  smoothed  hair  scalloped  over  his 
forehead,  and  a  shabby  man  in  wrinkled 
clothes.  These,  also,  were  grinning.  They 
stepped  to  one  side  and  the  red  door  framed 
several  more  faces — all  a-grin. 

The  surrey  remained  in  the  same  spot. 
That  was  the  cause  of  the  universal  hilar- 
ity on  the  street.  Doolan,  the  coachman, 
struck  the  horse  again,  this  time  sharply, 
although  he  knew  that  Miss  Conway  hated 
him  to  raise  the  whip. 

The  horse  slightly  heaved  his  flanks.  It 
was  a  motion  in  a  horse  that  might  be 
compared  to  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  in  a 
man.  But  he  did  not  stir.  He  was  a 
powerful  bay,  having  a  glossy  skin  and  a 
restless  eye.  Miss  Conway  had  bought  him 
(at  a  great  bargain)  the  week  before. 
Doolan  had  engineered  the  trade.  Up  to 
this  hour  he  had  been  proud  of  his  horse ; 
but  now  he  was  assailed  by  a  darksome  fear. 
He  tried  new  tactics.  He  made  an  encour- 
aging chirrup  with  his  lips,  and  said  ' '  Sam ! ' ' 
encouragingly.  But  Sam  merely  braced  his 
133 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

forelegs  and  rolled  his  eyes  back  on  his 
blinders  with  their  shining  silver  C,  and 
took  a  fresh  hold  on  his  bit. 

"Horse  balky?"  inquired  the  barkeeper, 
cheerful  and  interested. 

"He's  a  bit  narvous  and  high-spirited," 
answered  Doolan,  stiff  and  dignified. 

"You  must  make  him  go,  Doolan,"  cried 
Miss  Con  way,  "even  if  you  have  to  whip 
him!" 

Doolan 's  blow  had  good  will  in  it;  but 
Sam  only  sagged  his  head.  Doolan  struck 
again  and  harder.  With  an  indescribable 
expression  of  patient  martyrdom  Sam  took 
the  blow  and  did  not  move. 

"  He  is  balky, "  muttered  Doolan. 

"I  had  a  balky  horse,  once, "  the  barkeeper 
observed,  the  crowd  by  this  time  being 
enlarged  by  four  more  men,  and  two  women 
in  plain,  scant,  short  skirts,  basques  of  an 
antique  cut  and  checked  aprons.  The  latter 
housewives  came  from  their  domestic  tasks 
in  the  rear  of  the  shops  and  wore  no  bonnets. 
They  looked  sympathetically  at  the  lady  in 
the  surrey  and  said  "Ach  Himmel!"  and 
repressed  the  merriment  of  the  boys. 
134 


A  PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

"Vat  did  you  done  to  your  balky  hoss?" 
one  of  the  women  said  to  the  barkeeper. 
The  crowd  hung  on  his  answer;  Miss  Con- 
way  leaned  a  little  forward. 

"I  sold  him, "  said  the  barkeeper,  with  the 
effect  of  making  a  joke. 

"You  git  out!"  reproved  the  wrinkled 
man,  "you  don't  know  nothing  'bout  bosses. 
Young  feller,  you  jump  down  and  lead  the 
critter  a  bit;  and  he'll  go  all  right." 

Doolan  cast  an  oblique  glance  of  scorn  at 
the  adviser  and  did  not  move. 

Neither  did  Sam. 

"Lady,"  continued  the  wrinkled  man, 
"you  tell  that  smart  Alick  to  git  out  and 
lead  the  hoss — ' ' 

"With  his  head  blinded!" 

"No,  jest  his  head  kept  so  he  can't  move!" 

"Build  a  fire  under  the  wagon,  he'll  be 
glad  enough  to  go  then!" 

"Say,  Missis!  lemme  try  my  nigger  chaser 
on  him;  I'll  git  him  running!" 

These  different  suggestions  were  fired 
from  the  crowd  in  almost  simultaneous  fusil- 
lade. Miss  Conway  looked  anxiously  at  the 
horse;  she  said  something  to  Doolan,  who 
135 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

handed  her  the  reins  and  got  down  scowling, 
ironically  cheered  by  the  boys.  But  although 
he  went  to  the  horse's  head  and  told  Sam, 
"Good  Sam,  good  old  boy — -you  dom  divil!" 
to  move  on,  there  was  no  persuading  Sam. 
Then  the  coachman  set  his  teeth,  sprang  back 
into  his  seat  and  caught  up  the  whip.  Only 
one  blow  reached  the  horse  before  Miss 
Conway  touched  his  arm. 

"Don't  do  that,"  she  said,  quite  calmly, 
"I've  seen  balky  horses  before;  look  at  his 
ears!  The  next  blow  you  strike  him,  he'll 
kick  the  dashboard  to  splinters!" 

"You're  right,  lady,  he  will  that,"  cried 
the  barkeeper.  "I'd  a  buggy  smashed  by  a 
hoss  looked  like  that  one's  twin  brother.  I 
built  a  fire  under  that  hoss  one  day  and  he 
moved  jest  far  'nuff  to  set  the  wagon  afire. 
7  say  unhitch  him  and  maybe  that'll  fool 
him." 

"I  saw  a  dandy  thing  in  a  newspaper,  dead 
sure  for  balky  hosses, ' '  a  man  in  the  crowd 
offered;  "it  had  reformed  more  balky  horses 
than  any  remedy  they'd  tried  in  that  town 
for  a  year."  (The  crowd  showed  signs  of 
interest ;  Miss  Conway  looked  at  the  speaker.) 
136 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

"I  wisht  to  goodness  I  could  remember  it! 
Queer  I  can't.  It  was  a  real  simple  thing." 

Miss  Con  way  was  desperate.  "I  must 
get  on,"  she  said,  almost  imploringly  to  the 
crowd,  "I'm  just  summoned  to  a — a  dying 
friend.  Doolan,  I'm  going  to  get  out  myself 
and  try. ' ' 

"Maybe  so  you  vas  to  gif  him  some  nice 
grass,"  one  of  the  women  suggested.  "I 
go  git  you  some.  You  valk  ahead  und  he 
coom  after  till  he  git  by  dis  blace  und  den 
he  go  all  right.  You  see!" 

But  the  gentle  homeopathic  remedy  of  grass 
tendered  by  his  mistress  in  person,  proved  as 
useless  as  Doolan 's  heroic  medicines  of  whip 
and  voice.  Sam  hung  his  head.  He  looked 
as  if  he  wanted — if  such  a  thing  may  be  said 
of  a  horse — to  burst  into  tears ;  but  he  did 
not  take  a  step  toward  the  tempter.  Miss 
Conway  threw  the  grass  to  the  ground,  and 
looked  at  the  horse. 

"I'll  give  yous  five  dollars  for  him,  lady, 
just  as  he  stands;  he  ain't  worth  a  cent 
more ! ' '  shouted  a  heartless  boy.  But  the  bar- 
keeper took  him  violently  by  the  ear  and 
asked  him,  "Didn't  you  hear  the  lady  say  why 
137 


A  PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

she  was  in  a  hurry,  you  little — ?"  At  which 
between  pain  and  fright  the  boy  began  to 
whimper  and  Miss  Conway  instantly  ap- 
pealed for  mercy.  So  the  lad  was  released. 
Meanwhile  Sam  craned  his  neck  forward, 
and  being  unhampered  by  any  bearing  rein, 
which  Miss  Conway  (who  had  distributed  at 
her  own  charges  no  less  than  fifty  copies  of 
Black  Beauty  among  the  different  stables 
private  and  public  in  the  town)  considered 
to  be  wickedly  cruel,  he  was  able  to  nibble 
the  bulk  of  the  bribe  that  he  had  disdained, 
without  moving  a  leg.  Then,  refreshed,  he 
turned  his  pensive,  mild  eyes  on  Miss  Con- 
way.  She  was  standing  in  the  dust,  the 
pretty  yellow  chrysanthemums  of  her  filmy 
gown  shifting  about  her  in  the  wind,  un- 
comfortably warm  with  her  exertions,  her 
dainty  white  hat  blown  to  one  side,  and  the 
white  Chuddah  shawl  that  she  carried,  flutter- 
ing from  her  arm. 

Sam  apparently  thought  well  of  her  looks, 
for  he  rubbed  his  head  against  her  shoulder 
with  a  little  contented — or  was  it  com- 
placent?— whinney.  Miss  Con  way's  eyes 
flashed.  With  a  sudden  movement  she 
138 


A   PROBLEM   IN    HONOR 

wound  the  shawl  about  the  beast's  head  and 
bent  over  the  place  where  his  ear  was  wrig- 
gling, holding  the  head  steady  with  both 
hands.  "If  you  don't  go  I'll  sell  you  to- 
morrow!" she  called  in  his  ear,  and  tugged 
at  the  bit. 

Now,  whether  the  unusual  attack  discon- 
certed the  firm  soul  of  Sam  so  that,  in  an 
amaze  and  vacillation  of  mind  such  as  is 
known  to  undermine  the  strongest  spirits 
when  assailed  unaware,  he  weakened  in  his 
intent,  or  whether  he  simply  had  stood  as 
long  as  he  wished  and  was  now  ready  to  go 
on  again,  it  is  certain  that  Sam  allowed  him- 
self to  be  led  a  block ;  and  that  at  the  end  of 
his  walk,  Miss  Conway  having  removed  the 
shawl  and  stepped  into  the  surrey,  he 
instantly  trotted  off  briskly  and  virtuously, 
his  head  in  the  air  and  his  eyes  forward. 

Miss  Conway  drew  a  long  sigh.  "What  a 
horse,  Doolan!"  she  exclaimed,  "but  we 
didn't  lose  much  time,  did  we?" 

"He's  a  fright!"  said  Doolan,  "but  no, 
Miss,  not  twinty  minutes." 

They  had,  however,  lost  twenty-five 
minutes;  and  twenty-five  minutes  to  an 
139 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

irritable  hypochondriac  who,  after  fancy- 
ing himself  dying  for  twenty  years,  is  dying 
in  grim  earnest  at  last,  is  a  weary  long 
time. 

Wainwright  had  received  the  message  sent 
by  the  doctor's  boy,  who  unluckily  liked 
to  "scorch"  and  seized  upon  this  admirable 
excuse  to  whirl  back  to  the  Wainwright 
house  at  a  breakneck  speed.  Wainwright 
lived  in  an  old-fashioned  square  brick  house 
with  a  wooden  cupola,  and  a  narrow  piazza 
supported  by  slender  pillars  running  on  three 
sides  of  the  house.  The  house,  which  had  been 
built  when  the  town  was  new  by  one  of  the 
pioneers  and  later  bought  by  Wainwright, 
stood  in  the  center  of  a  lawn  covering  half 
the  block.  Wainwright's  own  chamber 
looked  out  on  the  street  and  his  bed  faced 
the  window.  Therefore  he  saw  the  boy  roll- 
ing down  the  gravel,  hunched  over  his 
handlebar  and  chewing  gum  as  he  rode.  A 
dull  resentment  seized  him. 

"Tell  that  little  devil  to  come  up  here, 
into  this  room,"  said  Wainwright. 

He  spoke  sharply,  although  a  minute  be- 
fore he  had  whispered  his  wishes. 
140 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

The  boy  was  heard  shuffling  through  the 
hall,  clattering  up-stairs. 

He  was  shown  into  the  room  by  the  nurse, 
a  professional  nurse  brought  from  the  hos- 
pital, who  viewed  him  so  coldly  that  he  grew 
embarrassed.  He  stared  about  the  room, 
comfortably  but  tastelessly  furnished  in  the 
florid  and  heavy  fashion  of  the  black-walnut 
age.  At  last  his  eyes  drifted  to  the  great 
black  bed,  the  carved  top  of  which  nodded 
its  clumsy  arabesques  and  rosebuds  within  a 
scant  foot  of  the  ceiling ;  and  thence  sank  to 
the  gray  face  on  the  pillows.  He  was  star- 
ing at  it  when  the  eyes  unclosed. 

"Miss  Gass,  will  you  fetch  me  my  purse," 
— the  boy  watched  the  thin  lips  part  and 
speak  painfully ;  he  looked  awed. 

"Take  a  five-dollar  bill  out  of  it."  The 
boy  had  some  difficulty  in  breathing  natu- 
rally. 

"Did  you  find  Miss  Con  way?" 

"Yes,  sir."  The  boy  spoke  in  a  small, 
scared  voice. 

"Did  you  tell  her — give  her  the  note?" 

"Yes,  sir.  She  said  she'd  come  right 
away.  She  was  in  a  carriage,  out  riding. ' ' 
141 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

"I  thought,"  said  Mr.  Wainwright,  speak- 
ing more  distinctly,  and  keeping  his  eyes, 
which  were  large  in  contrast  with  his  hollow 
cheeks,  fixed  on  the  shrinking  lad,  "I 
thought  I'd  like  to  give  this  to  the  messen- 
ger if  he  did  his  duty."  He  paused  and 
beckoned  for  the  glass  on  the  table,  but  he 
only  pretended  to  drink,  watching  the  boy 
over  the  rim.  The  boy  looked  a  shade  less 
solemn. 

"Yes,"  said  Wainwright,  "I  thought  I'd 
give  you  this  bill," — he  rubbed  his  finger 
and  thumb  over  it  and  held  it  up  the 
better  for  the  boy  to  see, — "but  when  I  saw 
you  coming  up  the  road  to  a  dying  man's 
house,  chewing  gum  and  not  caring  a  rap 
for  him  or  anything  else  but  yourself,  I  con- 
cluded I'd  give  it  to  a  little  kinder-hearted 
person.  That's  all.  You  may  go.  Miss 
Gass,  put  the  bill  away." 

The  boy  gasped,  but  he  moved  away  with- 
out retort. 

Wainwright  leaned  back  on  his  pillow  and 
smiled.  He  was  deadly  faint  with  the 
exertion,  but  he  mustered  strength  to  open 
his  eyes  and  watch  the  boy  wheel  away  out 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

of  the  yard.  At  the  gate  he  dismounted. 
Perhaps  it  was  for  the  outlet  of  some  boyish 
insult  of  gesture  which  he  knew  the  sick  man 
could  see,  for  he  turned  and  looked  up  at 
the  window:  but  he  must  have  had  a  streak 
of  rough  chivalry  about  him;  he  looked, 
lifted  his  cap  and  flung  himself  lightly  on  his 
wheel. 

"A  pretty  disappointed  boy,  /guess,"  said 
Wainwright. 

The  nurse  made  no  comment;  but  she 
looked  at  the  handsome,  haggard  face  on  the 
pillow  and  thought  her  own  thoughts.  To 
judge  from  the  curl  on  her  lip  they  were  not 
approving. 

Little  Wainwright  would  have  cared  had 
he  read  her  criticisms.  He  was  busy  think- 
ing of  his  money.  He  had  thought  of  his 
money  for  thirty-five  years.  He  had  scraped 
it  together,  dollar  by  dollar  at  first,  then  by 
the  tens  and  the  hundreds,  later  by  the 
hundreds  and  thousands.  When  he  was  a 
boy  he  had  vowed  to  make  a  fortune.  Well, 
he  had  made  it.  Half  a  million  was  a  big 
lump  of  money  for  a  country  town !  He  had 
said  he  would  do  it  and  he  had  done  it.  He 
143 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

had  done  most  of  the  things  that  he  said  he 
would  do.  Except — yes,  he  hadn't  married 
Margaret  Conway.  Did  he  really  want 
the  woman,  or  had  he  only  kept  up  the 
chase  all  these  years  simply  because  she 
was  the  only  thing  that  he  had  determined 
to  have  and  had  not  secured?  But  he 
might,  even  yet — why  didn't  the  woman 

come,     d her?      He  lost   his   thought, 

so  great  was  his  weakness,  but  his  will 
whipped  his  brain  back  to  it,  his  last  scheme. 
There  was  Ann:  how  many  times  had  he 
felt  a  dull  hatred  of  Ann,  whom  Peggy  loved 
so  ridiculously  while  she  would  not  love  him ! 
Now  he  would  win  her  through  her  love  for 
Ann.  Not  one  penny  should  Ann  have 
unless  Peggy  yielded.  But  then — he  would 
think  it  out — what  was  he  asking  so  much 
of  Peggy?  To  give  her  his  name,  a  good 
name,  good  as  hers  if  she  didn't  think  so, 
to  make  her  a  dignified  married  woman  in- 
stead of  an  old  maid.  And  the  money,  too! 
And  she  would  be  his  widow  in  a  few  days 
probably.  How  could  any  sane  old  maid 
object? 

But    why    didn't    she    come?    He    grew 
144 


A   PROBLEM    IN   HONOR 

feverish,  his  nurse  wrote  in  her  little  book 
and  watched  him  furtively.  He  in  his  turn 
felt  the  instinct  of  concealment  that  comes 
to  the  sick  so  often,  and  pretended  to  sleep. 
But  all  the  while  he  grew  more  and  more 
impatient  with  Margaret  Conway,  all  the 
while  his  flagging  wit  struggled  to  plan. 
But  for  that  jibing  horse  he  might  have 
been  more  merciful.  So  well  as  he  knew 
how  to  love  he  had  loved  Margaret ;  and  but 
for  the  irritating  delay  his  heart  might  have 
gone  back  to  softer  and  kinder  memories; 
and  he  might — such  thoughts  had  come  to 
him — he  might  have  yearned  to  have  her 
gratitude,  her  kindly  memories  of  him :  as  it 
was,  his  imperious  hatred  of  defeat  was 
chafed  to  the  raw  by  disappointment  and 
irritating  fancies  of  her  carelessness  and 
indifference  to  his  state. 

When  the  nurse  finally  announced,  "She's 
come,  Mr.  Wainwright,  she  came  up  the 
side  street, ' '  he  was  in  his  worst  mood. 

"You  send  over  for  Mrs.  Reynolds;  I  want 
her,  too,"  he  said. 

' '  Mrs.  Reynolds  is  down-stairs. ' ' 

"Then  have  her  come  up,  too;  I  want 
145 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

them  both  together.  You  go  down  yourself ; 
it  won't  take  a  minute.  Oh,  I'm  better;  I 
shan't  die  while  you're  out  of  the  room. 
Give  me  my  box  and  my  key  and  you  go 
down." 

Unwillingly  the  nurse  went. 

Ann  Reynolds  was  Wainwright's  half 
sister.  Wainwright  was  eighteen  years 
older  than  Ann.  Their  father  was  one  of 
the  pioneers  of  the  town  who  came  to  the 
Mississippi  just  as  the  Indians  were  sullenly 
retreating  from  their  hunting  grounds.  He 
built  the  first  flour  mill  in  the  town  and  the 
first  church.  He  came  from  Massachusetts, 
a  true  Puritan,  grim,  pious,  rugged,  indom- 
itably industrious,  careful  almost  to  niggard- 
liness in  the  daily  conduct  of  his  business, 
but  capable  of  spending  lavishly  on  occasion. 
Thus,  during  the  later  years  of  his  life  he 
built  him  a  mansion  on  the  principal  street 
of  the  town,  of  a  size  and  pomp  (for  those 
simple  days)  so  striking  that  the  gossips 
named  it  Wainwright's  Folly.  The  great 
panic  of  '57  struck  the  town  before  the  ham- 
mers were  out  of  the  house,  and  came  near 
to  justifying  the  nickname. 
146 


A   PROBLEM    IN   HONOR 

Perhaps,  had  he  lived,  Judge  Wainwright 
(he  was  judge,  mayor,  state  senator,  banker 
and  a  colonel  in  the  militia,  playing  many 
parts  on  his  small  stage)  would  have  steered 
his  fortune  safely  through  the  storm,  but  he 
died  at  the  most  critical  moment  and  his 
son's  credit  was  not  that  of  his  father;  hence 
there  was  an  enormous  shrinkage  in  the 
property  left  behind.  The  rich  man  of  the 
town  left  only  an  inconsiderable  estate  when 
all  claims  were  paid.  By  a  will  made  when 
he  believed  himself  to  be  rich,  he  left  all  his 
estate  for  life  to  his  widow,  his  second  wife. 
After  her  death  it  was  to  be  divided  equally 
among  the  children.  She  was  also  charged 
with  the  payment  of  some  legacies  to  the 
church  and  certain  charities,  further  impair- 
ing the  estate. 

The  first  Mrs.  Wainwright  had  been  a 
woman  of  strong  although  curiously  warped 
mind,  in  whose  family,  dimming  its  pride 
and  public  honor,  was  a  black  tradition  of 
insanity.  Born  a  gentlewoman  and  reared 
in  luxury,  there  was  no  more  insatiable 
worker,  no  keener  saver  in  the  pioneer  com- 
munity than  she.  She  was  a  far  famed 
147 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

house-wife,  a  nurse  who  traveled  miles  to 
lend  her  medical  skill,  and  with  it  all  she 
found  time  to  read  and  to  educate  her  chil- 
dren. But  she  had  lapses  of  strange  melan- 
choly, during  which  she  performed  duties 
like  one  in  a  dream,  faithfully  but  without 
zest. 

Her  husband  respected  her,  admired  her, 
and  possibly,  strong  man  though  he  was,  a 
little  feared  her.  Her  children  had  the  same 
mixture  of  feelings,  with  a  predominance  of 
the  fear. 

The  second  Mrs.  Wainwright  was  a  very 
pretty,  delicate,  obedient  woman  who  played 
classical  music  and  did  not  know  how  to  cook. 
Her  husband  loved  her  devotedly,  and  often 
at  the  old  settlers'  gatherings  at  the  county 
fair,  the  old  story  would  be  repeated  how 
Judge  Wainwright  drove  across  the  Missis- 
sippi on  floating  ice  to  get  a  cook  for  his 
wife,  by  this  peril  leaving  two  other  pursuers 
of  the  gifted  cook  a  night  behind,  since  the 
river  was  frozen  by  morning,  and  they  also 
crossed — but  meanwhile  the  cook  had  been 
taken  to  Mrs.  Wainwright. 

There  were  six  children— Peter  and  his  sis- 
148 


A   PROBLEM   IN    HONOR 

ter  Dorcas,  who  was  married  and  lived  in  the 
town,  children  of  the  first  Mrs.  Wainwright ; 
Ann,  and  three  little  brothers,  the  second 
Mrs.  Wainwright 's  children.  Peter  felt  sore 
and  angry  over  the  will.  He  was  just  begin- 
ning business,  and  he  had  a  heavy  load  to 
carry.  Nevertheless,  he  bought  the  house 
of  the  estate  on  easy  payments,  and  he 
managed  the  money  judiciously.  He  was 
the  real  head  of  the  household  for  the  next 
ten  years.  It  must  be  confessed  that  he  was 
rather  a  hard  one,  not  hesitating  to  give  the 
boys  a  sound  hiding  if  they  disobeyed  him, 
and  boxing  Ann's  ears  if  she  interferred. 
But  he  did  save  the  roof  over  their  heads. 
He  nourished  the  estate,  he  pared  their 
living  expenses  to  the  bone,  he  worked 
early  and  late,  and  when  Mrs.  Wainwright, 
rather  glad  to  go,  slipped  out  of  the  world 
into  the  family  lot,  where  she  would  not  be 
reprimanded  for  having  the  piano  tuned,  or 
be  obliged  to  turn  little  clothes,  double  the 
original  property  was  distributed  among  the 
four  heirs.  Only  four  it  was  now,  for  two 
of  the  boys  had  died.  The  third  boy  died 
the  year  following,  and  then  Ann  married 
149 


A   PROBLEM    IN   HONOR 

Jacob  Reynolds,  a  widower  with  four  chil- 
dren. She  married  him,  making  no  profes- 
sions of  an  affection  beyond  decent  regard. 
Two  of  his  children  were  married,  prosperous 
young  men  out  of  town — one  in  the  far 
West,  the  other  in  Chicago.  At  home  was 
a  boy,  an  invalid  from  his  babyhood,  and  the 
eldest  daughter,  who  was  reputed  to  have  a 
will  of  her  own. 

Jacob  Reynolds  was  a  good  fellow,  quiet 
and  kind  and  of  moderate  success  as  a  mer- 
chant. He  was  not  a  brilliant  match;  but 
Ann  was  a  plain,  quiet  girl  who  had  inherited 
her  father's  harsh  features  as  well  as  her 
mother's  beautiful  complexion.  She  inclined 
to  stoutness  in  figure,  starve  and  exercise  as 
she  might.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  such 
a  girl  would  be  able  to  marry  at  all.  Most 
people  considered  Ann  to  be  doing  a  wise 
thing.  They  would  have  been  surprised  to 
know  that  Ann  had  moments  of  suffering 
and  absolute  terror  at  the  thought  of  what 
she  had  promised;  or  that  she  had  promised 
more  because  of  her  pity  for  the  crippled 
child  and  her  weariness  of  her  own  hard  and 
narrow  life  than  anything  else.  Peter  was 
150 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

not  especially  moved  by  the  deaths  of  the 
little  boys;  he  grew  impatient  at  Ann's 
"everlasting  moping"  ;  and  he  was  angry  to 
the  point  of  rage  when  she  announced  her 
betrothal.  Already  the  foundations  were 
laid  for  his  fortune.  He  didn't  wish  to 
marry — at  present ;  he  did  wish  an  orderly, 
comfortable,  frugally  luxurious  home,  where 
special  dishes  could  be  prepared  for  him 
alone,  and  gas  never  burned  in  an  empty 
room,  and  there  were  no  servants  (except 
the  weekly  washerwoman)  to  scatter  prodi- 
gally. 

However,  Ann,  who  had  moments  of 
obstinacy  (didn't  she  insist  on  giving  the 
washerwoman  meat  at  both  meals  and 
absolutely  refuse  to  portion  out  the  soap?) 
had  a  moment,  now.  She  even  took  her 
miserable  little  fifteen  thousand  out  of  his 
hands  and  let  Reynolds  have  it  in  the 
business.  It  served  her  right,  Peter  thought, 
that  two  years  later,  when  Reynolds  died 
suddenly  (he  was  drowned  at  a  picnic  try- 
ing to  save  a  child  that  fell  overboard  from 
an  excursion  steamboat),  the  business  should 
be  in  bad  shape  and  eventually  some  of  the 
151 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

money  should  be  lost.  Mrs.  Reynolds  had 
enough  left,  however,  to  be  able  to  keep  her 
house  and  to  live  without  asking  help  of  her 
brother. 

The  invalid  boy  died,  but  the  girl  with  a 
will  of  her  own  lived  on,  and  no  man 
ventured  to  seek  her.  In  fact,  there  was  a 
rumor  that  Patience  (her  unfortunately  mis- 
placed name),  when  excited,  "threw  things." 
One  of  the  maids  said  that  she  could  live  for- 
ever with  Mrs.  Reynolds ;  but  that  there  was 
no  pleasing  Miss  Patty  and  she  was  "  'fraid 
for  her  life  with  her. ' ' 

But  for  "the  terrible  Patience,"  as  Miss 
Conway  called  Patty  in  secret,  the  two 
friends  would  have  lived  together.  They 
had  been  friends  ever  since  Miss  Conway 
came  with  her  father  to  the  town  more  than 
twenty  years  ago.  Why  a  brilliant,  hand- 
some, rich  young  girl  like  Margaret  Conway 
should  be  so  attracted  by  a  plain  young 
matron  who  had  so  few  charms  of  face  and 
manner  as  Ann  Reynolds,  was  a  subject  of 
wonderment  at  first ;  but  the  wonder  lessened 
in  time.  Mrs.  Reynolds  made  a  position  of 
her  own.  She  was  not  rich,  nor  pretty,  nor 
152 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

fascinating,  nor  even  of  a  picturesque  piety; 
but  little  "by  little  her  acquaintances  began 
to  find  that  Mrs.  Reynolds  had  an  even 
temper  and  that  useful  if  not  shining  quality 
which  in  a  man  is  called  "horse-sense." 
She  was  a  woman  that  very  many  people 
liked.  They  called  her  a  cold  woman,  but 
the  critics  would  add,  "There's  nothing 
false  about  her." 

It  was  in  the  first  year  of  her  coming  to 
the  town  that  Peter  asked  Margaret  Conway 
to  marry  him.  He  had  asked  her  many 
times  since.  The  last  time  was  when  her 
father  died,  five  years  ago.  She  thought  of 
it,  to-day;  and  Ann,  who  was  with  her, 
thought  of  it  also,  for  since  that  day 
Margaret  had  not  met  Peter  except  casually 
on  the  street. 

The  two  women  entered  together.  Peter's 
dull  eyes,  which  had  been  of  the  keenest, 
traveled  from  his  sister's  sturdy  figure,  to 
which  age  and  her  sober  clothing  had  given 
a  sort  of  dignity  in  default  of  the  grace  which 
was  forever  beyond  it,  to  the  beautiful  shape 
in  the  shimmering  yellow  flowered  gown. 
Mrs.  Reynold's  features  were  almost  fine 
153 


A   PROBLEM    IN   HONOR 

now,  softened  by  her  gray  hair;  but  they  had 
none  of  the  soft  loveliness  of  the  other 
woman's  broad,  low  brow  and  oval  cheek 
and  exquisite  mouth. 

"I'll  make  Ann  help  me  for  once,"  he 
thought,  grimly;  "what  makes  Peggy  so 
besotted  with  her  anyhow?" 

But  that  was  not  his  affair.  He  held  out 
his  hand  and  very  faintly  smiled.  His  sister, 
guessing  his  wish,  fell  back  behind  Miss 
Conway,  that  he  might  take  her  hand  first. 

He  had  not  been  a  good  brother  to  her ; 
but  she  looked  at  him  lying  with  the  shadow 
of  the  dread  mystery  that  we  all  must  meet, 
on  his  pinched  face,  and  awe  and  pity  chased 
every  other  feeling  away.  Perhaps  his 
health  excused  his  temper  and  his  lonely 
unsatisfied  life  his  greed.  Poor  Peter,  he 
had  loved  Peggy,  then,  and  he  wanted  to  bid 
her  good-bye!  Ann,  whom  her  world 
esteemed  a  cold  woman,  felt  her  throat  con- 
tract and  her  eyes  smart  with  the  pity  of  it 
all. 

She  saw  Peggy  take  his  hand  and  the 
clawlike  fingers  close  on  her  white,  smooth 
hand.  He  smiled.  "I  thought  you  weren't 
154 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

going  to  come,  "  said  he.  His  voice  was  a 
whisper. 

"I  came  as  fast  as  I  could,"  said  she,  "I 
was  delayed." 

"Oh,  I  guess  it's  all  right  now  you've  got 
here.  Peggy  —  do  you  mind  my  calling  you 


"Not  now  —  not  here  —  call  me  anything 
you  like,  that  gives  you  —  " 

She  had  it  on  her  lips  to  say  "comfort," 
but  there  was  something  so  presuming  in 
taking  it  for  granted  that  her  presence  or 
her  kindness  would  be  a  comfort  to  a  lover 
who  had  not  made  a  sign  for  five  years,  that 
the  sentence  hung  in  mid-air  and  she  finished 
it  with  an  ambiguous  smile. 

"Peggy,  you  know  —  say,  is  that  nurse 
woman  here?" 

The  nurse  moved  into  his  sight  with  pro- 
fessional gentleness  and  her  professional 
smile. 

"I  wish  you'd  go  down-stairs  and  stay 
there  until  I  send  you  word  to  come  up," 
said  Wainwright. 

The  nurse  murmured  something  about  the 
doctor's  orders. 

155 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

"There'll  be  a  new  doctor  to  order,  if 
you  don't,"  Wainwright  retorted;  "I've 
got  something  to  say  to  these  ladies  in 
private." 

The  nurse  hesitated,  then  she  said:  "Very 
well,  sir.  You  take  the  responsibility  of 
any  excitement.  Shall  I  fetch  the  ladies 
some  chairs  first?" 

"No,"  snapped  Wainwright,  "they  can 
get  their  own  chairs.  Now,  Ann,  you  look 
out  of  that  door" — the  nurse  had  gone,  still 
gentle  but  with  disapproval  bristling  in  every 
stiff  line  of  her  back — "see  she  isn't  peeking 
and  prying  somewhere!  Give  me  a  sip  of 
that  whisky." 

He  eyed  the  cutting  on  the  tumbler  and 
marked  the  height  of  the  liquid  after  he  had 
drunk.  "Hum,"  he  sniffed,  "nobody '11 
take  any  of  that  without  me  knowing. " 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  of  Miss  Gass 
taking  any,"  began  his  sister,  a  little 
shocked. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  interrupted,  "I'm 

suspecting  no  one,  but  there's  no  harm  in 

keeping  track  of  liquor.     That's  fine  stuff. 

Pat  sent  it  to  me.     Pat's  a  fool!     Peggy!" 

156 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

There  was  something  painful  and  rasping 
about  his  voice ;  he  spoke  breathlessly,  as  if 
some  inner,  strong  impulse  pushed  his  words 
out  of  exhausted  lungs. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Conway. 

"You  know  how  long  I've  wanted  to  marry 
you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Conway,  again;  but  it 
was  in  a  different  tone. 

"I  want  to  marry  you,  now.  No" — as  her 
cheek  burned  and  she  opened  her  lips — 
"wait,  you  wait!  I'll  put  it  as  a  business 
proposition.  I  can't  last  two  days.  You'd 
only  be  my  wife  two  days — that's  nothing — 
just  look  after  me  a  little — I  won't  be  trouble- 
some. Nurse  will  take  care  of  me — you 
won't  have  to — just  sit  around  a  little  so  I 
can  see  you.  And — no,  don't  speak  yet! — 
I've  made  my  will" — he  fumbled  in  the  box 
and  painfully  lifted  out  a  paper  in  an 
envelope — "you  read  that" — he  unfolded  it 
and  dropped  it  on  the  bed — "that's  not  the 
one.  That  gives  everything  to  found  a — a 
— never  mind,  that's  if  you  won't  do  what  I 
want — here — here — take  it  out!" 

He  was  trembling  with  eagerness;  he 
i57 


A  PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

gasped  hideously  for  breath,  but  his  eyes 
rolled  on  Ann,  who  would  have  summoned 
assistance.  "No,  just  you  two — whisky!" 

The  whisky  revived  him.  He  unfolded 
another  paper  and  read:  "To  my  beloved 
wife,  Margaret  Con  way  Wainwright,  and  my 
sister  Ann  Wainwright  Reynolds — residuary 
legatees,  share  and  share  alike — that's  what 
you'd  like,  isn't  it?  Marry  me  and  the 
minute  we're  married  I'll  sign  it.  You  want 
to  make  Ann  comfortable — rich — there's  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  and  up,  apiece ! 
Marry  me,  she  gets  it.  Don't,  and  she — 
does  not  get  one  penny!" 

Margaret  Conway  caught  her  breath. 
Her  indignation  rose,  but  she  looked  at  her 
friend.  Was  the  man  in  earnest  or  had  his 
mind  gone?  And  there  was  Ann,  too  proud 
to  be  helped  by  her  as  it  was,  but  in  this 
odious  way  she  could — 

"Oh,  you  ask  a  wicked  thing!"  she  cried, 
passionately. 

"Where's  the  wicked?  It — it  isn't  as  if  I 
was  going  to  live ! ' ' 

"You  make — a — a  mock  of  the  sacredest, 
the  solemnest — sacrament.  You  ask  me  to 
158 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

swear  to  love  and  honor  and  obey  you  when 
you  know — " 

"You  needn't  have  an  Episcopal  clergy- 
man and  say  all  that ;  I'm  not — particular — 
have  a  justice  of  the  peace!  But — don't 
cheat  Ann  out  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dol — " 

"Oh,  Annie,  what  shall  I  do?"  cried  Miss 
Conway,  suddenly  turning  on  her  friend. 

"If  you  say  so — " 

It  was  what  Wainwright  had  expected,  it 
was  the  contingency  for  the  sake  of  which 
he  had  kept  Ann  in  the  room.  His  lips 
relaxed  into  the  feeblest,  strangest  of  smiles. 
Ann  was  very  white. 

"There  is  something  you  haven't  counted 
in,  Peter,"  she  said,  in  a  very  quiet  voice; 
"the  doctor  told  me  this  morning  that  there 
was  a  bare  chance  of  your  recovery — " 

He  interrupted  her  with  a  scream  of  rage. 
"There  isn't!  there  isn't!"  he  shrieked. 
"Ann,  go  down-stairs!  call  Miss  Gass!" 

He  clutched  Miss  Conway's  hand  and  rolled 

his  head  over  on  her  arm,  writhing.     Mrs. 

Reynolds  really  feared  that  he  would  have 

a  paroxysm  and  die   then    and  there ;    she 

159 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

obeyed  him  as  rapidly  as  she  could.  The 
instant  she  was  gone,  however,  he  turned  a 
white,  wolfishly  eager  face  on  Margaret. 

"  Don '  t  believe  her, ' '  he  pleaded,  ' '  it  isn '  t 
true.  Promise,  promise!" 

"I  can't  promise" — Margaret  began;  but 
the  awful  change  in  his  face  stopped  her. 

"I  guess  it  has  come — well,  Ann  won't 
get  a  cent,  that's  one  good  thing,"  he 


He  rolled  off  her  arm  and  the  crumpled 
wills  lay  on  the  bed  before  her. 

Then  the  meaning  of  it  all  came  to  her  as 
the  lightning  strikes  and  sears. 

She  had  been  bending  over  him ;  but  she 
leaped  to  her  feet.  Her  eyes  blazed  into 
his.  "Oh,  don't  do  it!"  she  begged. 
"Peter,  don't  do  it!  let  me  burn  this  wicked 
will — just  nod  your  head.  There's  a  piece 
of  paper  in  the  grate — and  matches !  Peter, 
dear  Peter,  say  you  won't  punish  Ann  for 
my  fault!  You  know  that — that  there  was 
some  one  that  I  loved  and  he  loved  me  and 
we  couldn't  marry.  I'm  sorry  for  you, 
Peter;  won't  you  make  me  like  to  think  of 
yon  and  regret  you  and  feel  kindly — and 
1 60 


A    PROBLEM   IN    HONOR 

affectionately  to  you?  Please  let  me  burn 
the  will!" 

"No!"  said  Wain wright ;  he  thought  that 
she  would  yield. 

"Then  I'll  do  it,  anyhow!"  she  flashed 
back  at  him,  and  took  two  steps  to  the  grate 
with  the  paper  in  her  hand.  She  scratched 
the  match ;  and  the  same  second  he  made  a 
supreme  effort  to  rise  in  bed,  stretched  forth 
his  hand  and  fell  back  with  a  groan. 

"I've  killed  him,"  thought  Peggy;  but 
she  lit  the  paper  in  half  a  dozen  places  and 
watched  it  blaze  high  before  she  ran  to  his 
side  and  raised  him  tenderly  and  put  the 
whisky  to  his  lips.  But  he  could  not 
swallow. 

"I've  killed  him!"  she  thought,  again. 

Yet  even  with  the  thought,  her  eyes  darted 
over  to  the  grate  and  the  lean  brown  tri- 
angles spreading  downward  under  the 
flames,  eating  the  closely  written  lines. 
She  poured  the  whisky  with  frantic  haste 
over  his  lips,  and  it  trickled  hideously  down 
the  corners  of  his  mouth ;  she  forced  a  few 
drops  between  his  teeth;  but  she  did  not 
make  a  motion  toward  the  bell  to  summon 
161 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

help  until  the  blazing  sheets  were  only  a 
heap  of  light,  black  ashes.  Then  she  rang. 
Already,  however,  Mrs.  Reynolds  and  the 
nurse  were  in  the  hall.  They  came  into 
the  room  before  her  fingers  left  the  bell. 
The  nurse  pursed  her  lips  and  almost  imper- 
ceptibly nodded  her  head.  She  was  too  well 
trained  to  say  "I  told  you  so!"  but  outraged 
talent  must  have  some  vent  for  its  scorn. 
Instantly  she  had  her  hypodermic  syringe 
out  and  into  the  whisky  glass,  and  having 
charged  it,  bared  Wainwright's  arm  and  ran 
the  tiny  needle  into  the  flesh,  making  each 
motion  with  an  extraordinary  rapidity  and 
certitude. 

"He  was  talking  to  me,  and  he  had  this 
attack  suddenly,"  said  Miss  Con  way,  "and 
I'm  afraid — " 

"Heart,  of  course,"  said  the  nurse,  not 
interrupting  Miss  Conway,  whose  words  had 
died  away  unfinished;  "there  was  always 
the  danger.  You  fan  him,  please.  There 
ought  to  be  a  reaction.  Yes. " 

Wainwright  had  opened  his  eyes.  He 
looked  feebly  from  his  sister,  who  was  fan- 
ning him,  to  Miss  Conway ;  he  tried  to  move 
162 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

his  hand.  Margaret  took  it  in  hers;  her 
own  eyes  sank  into  his,  which  had  a 
strange,  dull,  peaceful,  solemn  expression, 
while  hers  were  filled  with  entreaty  and 
pain. 

"You  won't  mind,  Peter?"  she  said;  "it 
will  be  all  right?" 

He  did  not  speak ;  he  did  not  even  try  to 
speak ;  only  there  was  a  light  quiver  of  the 
fingers  loosely  clasping  hers,  and  he  turned 
his  head  very  slightly  and  coughed.  The 
nurse  bent  over  him.  Then  she  gently  dis- 
engaged Margaret's  hand. 

"You  ladies  better  go  now,"  said  she. 

"He  isn't " 

"Yes,"  said  the  nurse,  "we  can't  do  any- 
thing more  for  him. ' ' 

She  spoke  in  a  subdued  tone,  without 
emotion.  She  knew  Wainwright  (and  had 
known  him  during  years)  as  a  peevish  and 
selfish  invalid,  slowly  petting  and  pamper- 
ing imaginary  diseases  into  real,  and  as 
difficult  a  man  about  a  bargain  as  she  ever 
had  met.  But  if  she  had  little  respect  for  the 
dead  man,  she  had  a  professional  quietude 
in  the  presence  of  death. 
163 


A   PROBLEM   IN    HONOR 

"I  suppose  you'll  telephone  Mr.  Butler 
and  he'll  see  about  the  arrangements,"  she 
continued. 

Mrs.  Reynolds  nodded.  She  looked  at  the 
box  on  the  bed  and  the  one  paper  beside  it, 
slipped  to  one  side  of  the  blanket;  she  did 
not  look  at  the  grate,  but  with  a  curious 
light  on  her  face  slipped  her  arm  through 
Margaret's  and  led  her  from  the  room. 

"Wait,"  she  said  in  the  hall;  "I  must 
attend  to  Pat,  first." 

The  grim  details  which  wait  insistently 
on  death  and  make  no  account  either  of  grief 
or  the  indifference  that  is  sadder  than  grief, 
demanded  their  hour;  and  Peggy  helped 
her  friend  where  she  could. 

Pat  Butler  came  at  once.  He  was  the 
only  other  near  relative  of  the  dead  man, 
the  son  of  his  sister  who  had  died  when  the 
boy  was  born.  It  had  been  supposed  that 
Wainwright  would  leave  him  the  bulk  of 
his  fortune,  as  he  showed  him  some  gleams 
of  human  interest,  and  used  to  have  him 
stay  in  the  house;  but  within  the  last  six 
months  there  had  been  a  quarrel  between 
the  two  men  (of  what  nature  they  kept 
164 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

strictly  to  themselves),  and  apparently  a 
complete  breach. 

Pat  had  lived  more  with  his  aunt  than 
with  any  one  else ;  and  she  was  as  fond  of 
him  as  of  a  son.  And  next  to  his  aunt  he 
both  loved  and  admired  Miss  Conway,  or, 
as  he  always  called  her,  "Aunt  Peggy." 

Pat  came  into  the  hall,  a  little  breathless 
— he  had  ridden  on  his  wheel  up  the  hill — a 
little  flushed,  but,  as  usual,  not  in  the  least 
overheated.  He  was  not  handsome;  from 
his  Irish  father  he  inherited  not  only  a  sweet 
temper  and  high  courage  but  a  typical  Irish 
nose,  broad  at  the  base,  long  Irish  upper 
lip  and  red  curls.  To  counterbalance  this, 
he  had  a  fine  figure,  a  dimple  in  his  cheek, 
a  beautiful  fair  freckled  skin,  very  white, 
short,  even  teeth  and  small  but  brilliant 
dark-blue  eyes  with  thick  eyelashes. 

Pat  had  assumed  a  decent  gravity  of  bear- 
ing, but  he  made  no  pretense  of  grief. 

"It  took  me  a  little  while  to  arrange 
things,"  said  he,  after  he  had  kissed  both 
women,  "so  I  didn't  get  here  quite  so  soon. 
I  didn't  think  it  would  happen  so  soon. 
Doctor  Barker  said  he  might  have  an  attack 
165 


A    PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

and  go  off  in  it  any  day,  or  he  might  live  a 
month  longer.  And  Sellers,  who  was  called 
in  consultation,  you  know,  Aunt  Peggy, 
said  he  might  possibly  rally  and  get  over 
this  and  live  for  a  year  or  two.  These 
kidney  diseases  are  so  uncertain.  Well, 
poor  fellow,  it  wasn't  to  be!" 

Peggy  had  turned  pale  at  his  last  sentences : 
she  stole  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Reynolds. 

"He  seemed  to  be  sure  he  was  going  to 
get  over  it, ' '  continued  Pat,  in  a  meditative 
way.  He  felt  obliged  to  make  some  appro- 
priate conversation  in  a  house  that  was  so 
mournfully  not  of  mourning.  "I  was  up 
here,  yesterday,  and  saw  him.  But  he  got 
much  worse  at  night,  and  when  I  called  the 
nurse  thought  he  wouldn't  better  see  me. 
I  offered  to  stay  in  the  house  all  night ;  but 
the  nurse  thought  it  wasn't  necessary.  I 
suppose  he  had  another  seizure  this  morn- 
ing. I  was  superintending  a  house"  (Pat 
was  an  architect)  "and  I  had  arranged  with 
the  man  next  door,  to  get  any  telephone; 
but  none  came  until  yours.  You  were  here 
in  time?" 

Mrs.  Reynolds  described  the  last  scene 

166 


A  PROBLEM   IN    HONOR 

"briefly,  making  no  mention  of  Peggy's  part 
in  it,  perhaps  because  of  a  warning  pressure 
on  the  arm  from  Peggy  herself,  who  had 
risen  and  stood  behind  her  chair.  She  took 
the  word. 

"He  grew  worse,"  said  she,  "and  Annie 
went  down  for  the  nurse,  and  I  was  alone 
with  him — no,  he  asked  Annie  to  go  down ; 
I  think  it  was  before  he  grew  worse," — a 
little  red  spot  flickered  in  her  cheek  as  she 
made  the  effort  to  be  exact — "and  he  was 
talking  to  me.  He — he  grew  excited,  and 
all  at  once  his  face  changed ;  I  gave  him  the 
whisky,  but  he  couldn't  take  it.  Then  the 
others  came.  But  the  hypodermic  didn't 
more  than  rouse  him.  He  never  spoke." 

Pat's  bright  eyes  brightened  with  a  sudden 
intelligence.  But  he  had  no  comment. 

"Isn't  some  one  coming?"  said  Peggy. 
Pat  instantly  took  the  hint  and  went  out  into 
the  hall  to  avoid  the  indecorum  of  the  bell 
sounding.  Peggy,  who  had  known  that  he 
would  go,  caught  her  friend's  arm,  saying 
in  a  vibrating  voice,  "Annie,  you  must  get 
up  to  the  room  and  put  the  will  in  the  box 
and  the  box  away — " 

167 


A   PROBLEM    IN   HONOR 

"I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Reynolds.  "Peggy, 
did  he  have  you  burn  one  of  those  wills? 
Only  the  unsigned  one  was  there.  And  I 
saw  some  charred  paper  in  the  grate.  I 
thought  it  as  well  to  take  care  of  that." 

Miss  Con  way's  hazel  eyes  looked  darker, 
for  their  dilated  pupils ;  they  gazed  at  Mrs. 
Reynold's  middle-aged,  common-place  face 
with  a  curious  tenderness. 

"Yes,  I  burned  the  signed  will,"  she  said. 

"But  why  did  he  want  you  to?"  said  Mrs. 
Reynolds.  "Did  he  relent.  Did  he  forgive 
you  for  refusing?  You  know  why  I  spoke; 
it  was  because  he  might  get  well;  it  was 
not  fair  to  you — " 

"I  am  glad  I  refused;  it  was  a  wicked 
thing  he  asked  me  to  do,"  said  Peggy,  "but 
I  forgive  him.  Don't  let's  speak  of  it  ever 
again." 

Mrs.  Reynolds'  steady  eyes,  not  beautiful 
and  liquid,  like,  the  other  eyes,  but  clear  and 
frank,  never  moved  from  her  friend's  pale 
face.  "I've  got  to  understand,  Peggy; 
please  don't  evade  me.  I  thought  we  didn't 
conceal  a  thought  from  each  other,  dear." 

Peggy  unexpectedly  smiled. 

168 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

"I  don't  want  to  evade  you,  dearie,"  she 
said,  and  she  sighed  almost  as  if  relieved, 
"but  it  seemed  selfish  not  to  take  this  on  my 
own  shoulders.  But  if  you  want  me — no, 
he  didn't  relent.  I  begged  him,  I — I  called 
him  Peter  and  took  his  hand,  I  was  as 
humble — but  he  said  'No' — like  that.  And 
then  I  told  him  I  should  burn  it  anyhow. 
And  I  did." 

Mrs.  Reynolds  got  up  out  of  her  chair. 
She  did  not  spring,  she  rose  deliberately  as 
she  always  moved,  and  walked  deliberately, 
a  little  heavily,  to  the  window,  where  she 
stood  looking  out.  Miss  Conway,  still  stand- 
ing by  the  chair,  looked  after  her. 

"Mind,  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you,"  said 
she,  "but,  since  I  have,  I  am  going  to  speak 
out.  He  was  a  hard,  cruel  brother  to  you. 
He  made  a  slave  and  a  drudge  of  you  all 
your  girlhood.  He  never  gave  you  a  penny 
when  you  married — " 

' '  He  made  me  a  present ;  I  had  my  own 
money  to  buy  my  wedding  things." 

"He  gave  you  a  silver  ice  pitcher,  plated. 
I  have  seen  it  often.  And  the  plate  didn't 
\vear  well.  He  never  helped  you;  he  has 
169 


A   PROBLEM   IN    HONOR 

let  you  scrub  along  on  narrow  means  while 
he  has  piled  up  his  thousands  buying  farm 
mortgages  and  tax  titles  and  charging  high 
interest.  He  pretended  to  like  Pat,  and 
would  take  him  away  from  you  all  he  could 
and  say  mean  things  of  you.  Then,  for 
some  whim  of  his  own,  he  quarreled  with 
Pat  and  cut  him  out  of  his  will.  And  I 
suppose  he  wanted  to  give  every  penny  to 
some  charity  to  spread  his  name  abroad  as 
a  great  benefactor  and  philanthropist.  He 
wanted  to  defraud  Pat  and  you.  Now  he 
can't.  And  I'm  glad  I  made  it  so  he  can't. 
Pat  and  you  will  get  everything." 

Mrs.  Reynolds  did  not  stir.  She  was  look- 
ing out  of  the  window  with  knit  brows.  But 
she  did  not  see  the  wide  lawn  and  the  tall 
maples  that  had  been  growing  ever  since 
her  father  died.  She  was  trying  to  under- 
stand, to  see  her  way. 

"Annie,"  said  Peggy,  in  a  low  tone, 
"Annie,  you  don't  think  I  did  wrong?" 

Mrs.  Reynolds  checked  a  kind  of  laugh, 
rather  a  bitter  laugh. 

"  Well,  you  know  what  you  did  was  against 
the  law." 

170 


A   PROBLEM   IN    HONOR 

"Why — yes,  of  course" — she  threw  back 
her  beautiful  head,  her  lips  parted  in  a  scorn- 
ful smile — "it's  a  penitentiary  offense,  isn't 
it?" 

"I  don't  know;  speak  lower.  It's  against 
the  law." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  matter.  Nobody  will 
ever  know.  The  law  is  a  blundering  sort  of 
thing.  That  doesn't  bother  me.  It's  you. 
You  seem  to  think  I  did  wrong." 

"Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Certainly  I  don't,"  responded  Peggy, 
with  some  warmth;  "you  know  how  you  are 
situated.  You  won't  take  money  from  me, 
although  we  have  been  more  than  sisters  for 
twenty  years  almost.  You  won't  come  to  live 
with  me  and  be  comfortable — we  would  be 
so  happy,  Annie — but  you  insist  that  so  long 
as  there  is  Patience  and  you  haven't  enough 
for  her  to  board  as  she  would  like  or  to  keep 
house,  you  must  stay  with  her;  and  you 
won't  let  me  try  to  put  up  with  Patience. 
You  who  could  do  so  much  with  money, 
have  to  calculate  your  car  fare — " 

"But  you  are  always  giving  me  money  to 
give  away!" 

171 


A    PROBLEM   IN    HONOR 

"You  don't  ask  for  half  you  would  give, 
yourself.  Well,  you'll  have  plenty,  now, 
Annie!  Why  don't  you  speak  tome?  You 
are  not  angry  with  me?" 

The  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  Mrs. 
Reynolds  crossed  over  to  her — not  deliber- 
ately, now,  but  swiftly,  with  a  kind  of  fierce- 
ness in  her  rapid  steps  and  the  look  on  her 
face ;  and  there  was  a  touch  of  fierceness  in 
the  close  embrace  in  which  she  crushed  the 
supple,  slender  figure  of  her  friend. 

"My  darling, "  she  cried,  "you  can  do  any- 
thing you  please.  I  shan't  be  angry  with 
you.  You  are  the  best  woman  in  the  world, 
the  sweetest,  the  dearest;  and  I  love  you 
better  than  anything  in  it,  and  Pat  next  to 
you,  and  you  did  it  for  us;  but,  dear,  we 
can't  take  it!" 

"You — can't — take  it!"  cried  Peggy.  She 
was  crying  softly  in  a  nervous  reaction  from 
the  strain  of  the  last  hours,  but  at  the  words 
she  slipped  out  of  her  friend's  arms  and  faced 
her. 

"Don't  you  see,  it's  like — like  stealing  his 
money.  He  didn't  give  it  to  me.  And  it 
was  his  to  give.  He  made  it  all.  There 
172 


A   PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

wasn't  enough  to  mention  left  by  father; 
and  he  increased  the  estate  so  much  before 
it  was  divided  that  he  more  than  gave  us 
back  that.  He  had  a  right  to  do  what  he 
liked  with  his  own.  And  he  didn't  mean  to 
give  it  to  me — or  to  Pat.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  about  Pat.  He  ought  to  know, 
and  we  ought  to  find  out  what  the  will  said 
and  do  it  with  the  money.  But  I  can't  tell 
Pat—" 

"I  don't  in  the  least  mind  your  telling 
Pat,"  interrupted  Peggy;  "he'll  think  as  I 
do,  I'm  sure,  and  tell  you  you  are  crazy." 

"May  I  tell  him?"  Mrs.  Reynolds  asked, 
eagerly. 

Peggy  assented,  repeating  what  she  had 
said  before.  And  later  in  the  day,  after  the 
somber  bustle  of  the  preparations  was  over, 
and  the  friends  of  Mrs.  Reynolds  and  the 
official  associates  of  the  dead  man  (friends 
he  seemed  to  have  none)  had  come  and 
made  their  offers,  after  the  kindly  fashion 
of  a  Western  town,  and  gone  their  ways, 
and  Ann  and  Pat  sat  in  the  dark  parlor,  with 
the  noises  of  the  street  muffled  by  distance 
and  the  closed  blinds,  she  repeated  the  story. 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

Pat  made  no  comment  until  the  very  end. 
He  jumped  out  of  his  chair  and  paced  up 
and  down  the  room. 

"Well!  wouldn't  that  kill  you  dead!"  he 
remarked.  Then  he  asked:  "Is  it  perfectly 
safe?  Nobody  suspects  anything?" 

"It's  absolutely  safe.  But  what  shall  we 
do,  Pat?" 

"Do?  Oh,  there's  only  one  thing  to  do. 

Follow  his  d skinflint  will.  It  was  his 

own  money.  He  had  a  right  to  do  what  he 
chose  with  it.  And  Aunt  Peggy  threw  it 
into  the  fire!  And  she  can't  see  she  did 
anything  wrong !  Mads  the  old  man  into  a 
fit  that  kills  him,  and  burns  his  will  before 
his  eyes,  and  goes  home  to  say  her  prayers 
without  a  ripple!  Well,  give  me  a  sweet, 
good,  pious,  womanly  little  woman  to  play 
smash  with  the  commandments."  He 
grinned,  but  Mrs.  Reynolds  answered  with 
fire: 

"Peggy  is  the  best  woman  I  know,  Pat. 
Don't  you  remember  how  unfailingly  sweet 
she  was  with  old  General  Conway.  I  liked 
the  old  General,  and  he  was  Peggy's  father, 
but  he  did  have  cranky  whims ;  but  she  never 
174 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

seemed  to  know  they  were  anything  un- 
reasonable. And  you  know  why  she  never 
married.  There  was  insanity  in  his  family. 
Finally  the  young  fellow  himself  saw  the 
danger,  and  they  parted,  although  it  broke 
her  heart.  You  don't  know,  though,  that 
the  weekly  visit  she  used  to  make  to  Chicago 
for  years  was  to  see  him — in  the  asylum 
where  he  had  to  pass  the  last  years  of 
his  life.  He  died  there  ten  years  ago. 
And  when  she  came  home  her  father  fell 
ill;  and  he  wanted  her  every  minute,  and 
she  never  let  him  see  her  anything  but 
cheerful. 

' '  My  poor  girl !  I  remember  how  she  once 
was  alone  with  me  for  a  few  moments,  and  she 
began  to  cry  and  checked  herself,  saying:  'I 
never  let  myself  cry  in  the  daytime,  because 
it's  so  hard  to  stop  before  it  shows!'  I  used 
to  walk  past  the  house  every  morning  at  a 
certain  time  and  she  would  come  to  the 
window.  And  I  used  to  write  her  little 
notes  to  cheer  her  up ;  but  it  was  so  little  I 
could  do.  Yet  she  never  said  one  complain- 
ing word.  I  know  she  never  thought  one. 
And  hasn't  she  been  more  than  a  mother 
175 


A    PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

to  Mabel?  You  said  yourself  that  Mabel  was 
her  very  image  and — " 

"I'm  awfully  in  love  with  Mabel,  and 
mean  to  tell  her  so  the  minute  I  have  enough 
money  to  make  it  decent,"  interrupted  Pat. 
' ' Sure.  But  I'm  not  criticising  Aunt  Peggy. 
No,  I  only  mean  that  Aunt  Peggy  is  the  old 
type  of  a  good  woman  and  you  are  the  new. 
Aunt  Peggy  is  just  as  conscientious  as  you, 
but  your  lights  are  different.  See?" 

"Not  entirely,  Patrick.  I  only  see  that 
we  can't  take  Peter's  money.  Goodness 
knows  I  wish  we  could;  but  I  should  feel 
like  a  thief,  and  I  should  be  one,  too. ' ' 

"That's  the  way  I  look  at  it,"  said  Pat, 
rumpling  his  red  curls;  "there  are  some 
fundamental  things  underlying  all  creeds 
and  all  morality.  And  in  a  scientific  age  like 
this,  up-to-date  moralists  try  to  get  at  those 
and  let  the  non-essentials  go.  But  the  old 
woman  isn't  scientific ;  keep  her  within  the 
beaten  paths  where  she  has  been  told  all 
about  the  right  and  wrong  of  things  and 
she'll  go  to  the  rack  with  a  smile  for  her 
principles— that's  Aunt  Peggy.  But  give 
her  a  sudden  dilemma  in  morality  where  she 
176 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

has  to  blaze  her  own  moral  way,  and  I  tell 
you  her  heart  is  going  to  handle  the  ax ;  and 
the  ten  commandments  aren't  in  it!" 

"She  doesn't  think  about  breaking  the 
commandments — ' ' 

"Of  course  not.  Neither  do  you  if  you 
are  following  them.  You  reason  out  the 
question  on  the  line  of  fundamental  morality. 
You  don't  consider  the  persons  involved  at 
all.  She  doesn't  consider  anything  else.  It's 
the  old  woman  and  the  new.  However,  to 
get  back  to  the  question.  We  decide  we 
must  give  the  money  to  the  object  named 
in  that  confounded  will.  What  was  it?" 

"He  didn't  tell  us." 

"And  the  will  is  burned.  But  some 
lawyer  must  have  drawn  it  up." 

"Carpenter  and  Bates  drew  it  up.  I  went 
to  see  them  this  afternoon,  knowing  that 
they  did  things  for  him  occasionally;  and 
most  lawyers,  you  know,  have  some  other 
lawyer  make  a  will — I  suppose  on  the  same 
principle  that  most  doctors  have  another 
doctor  called  in  when  they  fall  ill.  They 
had  drawn  it  up.  And  he  had  it  signed 
and  witnessed  in  their  office  March  loth 
177 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

of  this  year,  and  they  know  of  no  later 
will—" 

"But  in  favor  of  whom?"  said  Pat, 
impatiently,  making  a  favorite  gesture  of 
his  with  his  hands,  opening  them  and  wav- 
ing them.  "Who  gets  the  money?" 

"They  didn't  know;  he  left  the  place 
blank  and  filled  it  himself." 

Pat  whistled.  Mrs.  Reynolds  put  one  knee 
over  another,  an  attitude  which  she  never 
allowed  herself  in  public.  "You  see,"  she 
continued,  "we  shall  have  to  reason  it  out. 
March  loth?  that  was  the  day  after  his 
quarrel  with  you.  I  think  he  made  it  because 
he  was  angry  with  you." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Pat  composedly;  "it 
was  one  of  his  favorite  amusements — making 
wills  disinheriting  me.  He  used  to  read 
them  aloud  to  me  and  then  put  them  away 
in  his  tin  box.  At  first  I  would  be  furious ; 
but  I  got  so  I  used  to  laugh  at  him.  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  he  meant  to  trick  me  and 
leave  all  his  property  to  a  college,  or  a  hos- 
pital, something  that  would  take  his  name, 
and  have  a  big  picture  of  him  hanging  up 
in  the  hall.  The  last  time  we  'quarreled — 
178 


A   PROBLEM   IN    HONOR 

well,  what  do  you  suppose  over?  I  didn't  like 
to  talk  about  it  while  he  was  alive,  but  I'm 
pretty  cross,  now,  and  don't  mind  talking. 
It  was  the  Catholic  church,  no  less.  He 
knows  I'm  not  much  of  a  Catholic,  and  if 
you'll  believe,  he  wanted  me  to  join  the  Con- 
gregationalist  church.  Me!  I  didn't  usually 
get  cross;  but  I  confess  I  told  him  I  wasn't 
a  hypocrite,  and  he  was  a  cur  to  ask  me  to 
forsake  the  faith  of  my  fathers,  which  I  liked 
even  if  I  didn't  believe  in  every  old  thing 
about  it.  He  told  me  I'd  never  see  a  dollar 
of  his  money,  and  I  told  him  he  might  take 
his  money  to — humph,  with  him!  I  was 
nasty,  that's  true;  and  I  acted  like  a  chump 
to  row  with  a  sickly  old  sinner  like  him. " 

' '  Do  you  suppose  he  left  his  money  to  the 
Congregational  church?  They  are  very 
anxious  to  build,  and  they  would  name  the 
church  after  him. ' ' 

"That  wouldn't  take  it  all.  It  might  take 
some.  He  used  to  tell  me  he  thought  the 
best  monument  a  man  could  leave  after  him 
was  a  public  park.  He  told  me  that  a  week 
before  he  died." 

"But  he  had  a  quarrel  with  the  city  after 

179 


A   PROBLEM    IN   HONOR 

that,  and  swore  he  never  would  pay  the 
pavement  tax,  and  said  he  would  move  out 
of  town,"  said  Mrs.  Reynolds. 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Pat,  gloomily, 
"and  I  remember,  too,  that  he  didn't  like  a 
sermon  of  the  Congregational  minister,  and 
was  going  to  go  to  the  Episcopal  church. 
What  did  he  think  of  hospitals?" 

"He  never  spoke  of  one  to  me.  A  fund 
for  supplying  every  sick  man  with  patent 
medicines  would  be  more  in  his  line.  Do 
you  remember  how  he  used  to  buy  every  new 
nostrum?" 

"He  hadn't  any  old  servants  to  pension 
off,  for  he  was  always  changing.  These 
came  last  month.  And  we're  about  all  his 
kindred.  I  say,  Aunt  Ann,  we  are  simply 
driven  into  sin.  We've  got  either  to  keep 
that  money  for  ourselves,  or  we  have  to  give 
it  away  according  to  our  own  notions  and  we 
get  the  credit.  I  don't  see  any  way  out  of  it. " 

' '  Let  us  give  it  to  the  park,  then ;  have  it 
called  by  his  name." 

"But  he  was  raging  at  the  city." 

"He  was  raging  at  everything,  at  us,  at 
everybody," 

180 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

Pat  rose.  He  had  settled  his  disquiet  in 
a  chair  for  the  last  ten  minutes — he  came 
up  to  his  aunt. 

"I  have  a  queer  sort  of  notion,"  said  he; 
"let  us  go  up-stairs,  where  he  is,  and  talk  of  it 
before  him.  If  there  is  such  a  thing  as  his 
being  around,  he  ought  to  give  us  a  tip. ' ' 

Mrs.  Reynolds  agreed.  She  felt  herself 
before  a  blind  wall ;  and  she  did  not  dare  to 
listen  to  her  own  judgment  lest  she  should 
be  selfish — wherein,  perhaps,  she  showed 
herself  a  true  daughter  of  generations  of 
self-tormenting  Puritans. 

"You  know  Peggy  is  there?"  she  said,  as 
she  stood  before  the  closed  door. 

She  answered  his  look  of  astonishment. 
"Yes,  she  said  that  he  would  like  her  to  be 
with  him,  his  last  night  here." 

"Well,  I  give  up  women,"  said  Pat. 
"They're  too  deep  for  me." 

Peggy  was  sitting  quietly  beside  her  old 
lover.  The  room  was  brightly  lighted,  and 
his  uncovered  face  wore  the  look  of  infinite 
peace  that  is  death's  first  merciful  token. 
Peggy  had  her  prayerbook  in  her  hand. 
She  looked  sweet  and  calm,  and  Pat  felt  an 

181 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

awkward  shame  of  his  words  down-stairs. 
And,  then,  as  he  stood  nearer,  he  perceived 
that  there  were  traces  of  tears  on  her  cheeks. 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  said  Peggy,  her 
soft  voice  like  a  strain  of  music — "I  have 
been  thinking  how  sad  it  is  for  him  to  lie 
here  with  no  one  to  shed  a  tear  because  he  is 
dead.  I  could  not  help  crying.  As  much,  I 
suppose,  as  he  cared  for  any  one,  he  cared 
for  me.  I  think  he  would  like  me  to  be 
here.  And — you  know,  he  did  press  my 
hand.  I  think  he  forgave  me.  Poor  Peter!" 

Pat  gave  a  little  gasp. 

"I  wish  to  God  I  knew  what  is  right  to 
do!"  cried  Mrs.  Reynolds,  with  a  sob. 
"Peter,  what  do  you  want  us  to  do  with  your 
money?  We'll  do  anything  you  say  if  we 
only  knew!" 

But  Peggy  laid  her  hand  almost  caressingly 
on  the  thin  hands  clasped  above  the  quiet 
heart. 

"I  know  what  Peter  wants,"  said  she,  "it 
has  come  to  me,  sitting  here  and  praying. 
I  don't  think  I  did  wrong  to  make  Peter  do 
right.  He  doesn't  see  things  through  a  blur 
now ;  he  would  rather  have  our  kindly,  for- 
182 


A   PROBLEM    IN    HONOR 

giving  thoughts  and  our  gratitude  than  have 
you  scatter  the  money.  Give  some  of  it 
away  to  something  that  will  be  called  by  his 
name  and  divide  the  rest  between  you. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  but  she  is  right,"  said  Pat. 

"If  you  had  only  seen  a  line  in  the  will 
to  guide  us, ' '  said  Ann. 

"I  only  saw  the  date,"  said  Peggy, 
"January  3—" 

"What!"  screamed  Mrs.  Reynolds,  "are 
you  sure!  January?" 

"I  am  perfectly  sure — but  why?" 

' '  They  told  me  of  that  will.  It  gave  every- 
thing to  Pat.  He  must  have  destroyed  the 
other  will  himself. ' ' 

"By  Jove,  he  was  only  using  that  will  for 
a  bluff,"  cried  Pat. 

"I  know  he  destroyed  one  will,"  said 
Peggy,  "not  long  before  he  died.  Miss  Gass 
told  me.  It  was  one  of  March  loth,  she 
said.  He  told  her  the  date.  But,  Annie,  do 
you  mean  that  will  gave  everything  to  Pat? 
Ought  he—" 

"No,"  cried  Pat,  putting  his  arm  about  her 
waist,  "I'm  the  one  to  talk,  now;  you  burned 
up  my  rights,  Aunt  Peggy,  and  for  that  you 
183 


A  PROBLEM   IN   HONOR 

will  say  your  best  for  me  to  Mabel  to  make 
me  your  own  true  nephew,  and  you  will  say 
nothing  while  we  share  the  estate,  Aunt  Ann 
and  I,  and  give  Uncle  Peter  his  memorial. 
Uncle  Peter,  isn't  that  right?" 

And  as  Peter  Wainwright's  placid  mask 
lay  before  them,  almost  seeming  to  assent, 
his  old  love  suddenly  bent  and  kissed  his 
forehead. 

"Poor  Peter, "  she  said,  "you  did  forgive 
me,  I  know.  And  it  will  be  all  right. " 


184 


On  the  Blank  Side 
of  the  Wall 


MARY,  the  laundress,  brought  the  card 
to  Margaret  the  cook  for  advice,  it 
being  the  waitress's  "afternoon  out, " 
and  Mary  herself  new  to  the  place  and  timid 
about  the  visiting  list. 

"She  wants  particularly  to  see  Mrs. 
Darcy,"  explained  Mary. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  Margaret.  "I  got  my 
hands  in  the  bread.  I  do  think  folks 
oughtn't  to  come  on  days  that  ain't  Mrs. 
Darcy's  day,  especially  now  we're  in  such 
trouble.  I  know  Mrs.  Darcy's  got  a  lot  of 
letters  to  write  to-day." 

"Shall  I  tell  her  Mrs.  Darcy  begs  to  be 
excused?  Is  that  what  you  say?" 

Mary  took   kindly  to  social  forms.      She 
felt   that    to   live   in  a  family    which   kept 
"three  girls,"  a   coachman    in  livery,    and 
185 


BLANK   SIDE   OF  THE   WALL 

a  boy  to  help  about  the  stable  was  something 
to  write  her  friends.  It  was  a  quiet,  unpre- 
tentious Western  city,  and  Mrs.  Darcy's  was 
considered  a  large  establishment.  Mary  felt 
that  she  would  have  been  much  more  ele- 
gant than  Annie  the  waitress,  who  hated  to 
"excuse"  Mrs.  Darcy  and  would  blurt  out  a 
lie  cheerfully — "She  ain't  to  home,  ma'am; 
I  guess  she  must  have  gone  out" — when  she 
knew  Mrs.  Darcy  was  up-stairs  in  her  sitting- 
room. 

"No,  you  won't,"  said  Margaret,  grimly. 
"That's  Miss  Harmon's  card" — she  had 
looked  at  it  extended  by  Mary — "and  Miss 
Harmon  and  the  Senator  used  to  send  over 
flowers  'most  every  day  when  Mr.  Winthrop 
was  sick.  I  know  Mrs.  Darcy '11  see  her. 
They  say  the  Senator  ain't  going  to  git  well, 
either.  It'll  come  awful  hard  on  her. 
There's  jest  them  two,  and  they've  been 
together  so  many  years !  What  you  a-wait- 
ing  for?" 

She  sighed  as  Mary  ran  off.     And  she  told 

Thompson  the  coachman,  who  came  in  for 

orders  presently, ' '  I  hated  to  disturb  her,  but 

I  knew  she'd  not  refuse  to  see  Miss  Harmon. " 

186 


BLANK   SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Thompson  said:  "Kinder  queer,  her  com- 
ing when  her  brother's  so  awful  sick.  It's 
bad  about  the  Senator,  ain't  it?  I  was 
reading  his  resignation  only  last  Sunday. 
He's  got  a  deal  to  leave.  They  was  talking 
of  him  for  President,  Mr.  Win  told  me. ' ' 

A  tear  shone  in  Margaret's  honest  eyes  as 
she  kneaded  the  bread  harder.  "And  who 
knows  but  Mr.  Win  might  have  been  the 
President  himself  if  he'd  a-lived?  He  was 
smart  enough. ' ' 

"Yes;  he  was  smart,"  Thompson  agreed, 
sadly.  "And  he  was  easy  on  hosses " 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  admit  that  now,  if  it 
is  too  late,  all  the  same.  The  way  you'd  go 
at  that  poor  boy  if  a  hoss  was  sweating  in 
summer!  I  don't  wonder  your  conscience 
is  pricking,  Richard  Thompson ! ' ' 

"Well,  it  ain't  then,"  retorted  Thompson, 
in  no  discomposure.  "I  didn't  mean  noth- 
ing serious,  and  he  know'd  I  didn't,  and  he 
always  laughed.  He  was  a  hearty  laugher, ' ' 
added  Thompson,  with  a  little  gulp.  "I 
can  hear  him  now ! ' ' 

"So  can  I,"  said  Margaret,  and  began  to 
cry. 

187 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

"There,  now,  Margaret,"  Thompson 
soothed  her;  "I  can't  say  a  word  about  him 
but  you're  all  upset." 

"I've  known  him  ever  since  he  was  five 
years  old,"  sobbed  Margaret,  "and he  never 
give  me  a  sassy  word  'cept  the  time  he  took 
my  fresh  sponge  cakes  to  give  to  two  rag- 
gedy little  dirty  boys  that  said  they  hadn't 
had  anything  to  eat  for  a  week — little  liars ! 
And  I  run  after  him  and  snatched  'em 
away,  and  he  threw  all  the  rest  of  the  cakes 
over  to  the  boys,  he  was  so  mad,  and  called 
me  a  stingy  old  tomcat,  and  said  I  was 
crueler  than  Nero — the  precious  lamb!" — 
Margaret  wiped  her  eyes  on  her  wrist — "Oh, 
dear!  He  was  such  a  sweet  little  boy!  I 
remember  how  mad  I  was,  too,  for  the 
cakes  was  for  charlotte  russes,  and  company 
coming  and  a  big  lunch,  and  we  didn't  have 
so  much  help  as  we  do  now,  then.  I  told 
him  jest  how  it  was.  'And  you  needn't 
think  I'm  going  to  tattle  on  you  to  your 
mamma,'  says  I,  'for  I  ain't.  I'm  going  to 
make  another  batch  of  cakes,  but  I  ain't 
going  to  forgit  how  you  treated  me  for  one 
while!'  Why,  that  poor  little  tender- 
188 


BLANK   SIDE   OF  THE   WALL 

hearted  child  he  burst  out  crying,  and  what 
does  he  do  but  run  off  and  get  me  every  one 
of  the  eggs  he  was  saving  to  hatch  chickens. 
Well,  I  never  expect  to  see  another  child 
like  him !  And  he  kept  his  sweet  way  with 
him  after  he  growed  up ' ' 

"But  you  couldn't  fool  him  worth  a  cent!" 
Thompson  struck  in.  "Nor  you  couldn't 
scare  him,  neither!  'Member  the  time  he 
went  out  on  the  river  in  the  sailboat  and 
they  got  tipped  up,  and  he  could  swim  like 
a  fish  but  he  wouldn't  leave  the  other  boy 
and  held  him  on?  And  when  they  got 
ashore  them  two  boys  walked  eight  miles 
into  town  and  telephoned  so's  his  mother 
shouldn't  be  worried.  And  that  Mr.  Cane 
that  was  with  him  at  college  told  me  he  seen 
him  with  his  own  eyes  run  into  a  house 
afire  and  git  a  woman  out,  and  I  know  he 
could  fight  with  his  fists,  for  I've  seen  him. 
He  got  a  prize  at  college  for  fighting,  I 
know,  too." 

Margaret  sighed  in  acquiescence:  "He's 
just  like  his  mother ;  just  her  sweet  way. ' ' 

' '  His  pa  was  different,  I  heard, ' '  ventured 
Thompson. 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

"Jest  as  hard  as  nuts  and  sharp  as  a  file," 
said  Margaret,  "and  stick  to  things  like 
pitch.  But  no  doubt  he  was  a  good  man. 
It  was  wonderful,  though,  the  way  Win- 
throp  got  all  his  mother's  good  ways,  and 
all  his  father's,  too.  Oh !  the  poor  woman, 
Richard!  When  I'm  rebelling  for  myself  I 
think  of  her.  No  other  child  but  him.  and 
her  whole  soul  bound  up  in  him  like  it  was ! 
How  is  she  going  to  bear  it?  And  think  of 
the  villains  that's  let  to  live!" 

"That's  right,"  said  Thompson,  meekly. 
"Well,  if  she  ain't  wanting  the  carriage  I 
guess  I'll  go." 

Up-stairs,  Augusta  Darcy  sat  before  a 
heap  of  letters,  her  eyes  wandering  across 
the  street.  The  Harmons'  modest  wooden 
house  had  a  background  of  elms  and  great 
oak  trees,  but  in  front  only  a  narrow  yard 
held  off  the  street.  Mrs.  Darcy  could  see 
clearly  the  piazza  with  the  greening  honey- 
suckle before  the  Senator's  windows.  His 
study  was  on  the  right  hand.  Often  during 
those  nights  of  watching  which  had  seemed 
to  her  so  ghastly  in  their  sickening  anxiety, 
but  the  worst  of  which  she  would  welcome 
190 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

now,  she  had  seen  the  Senator  bending 
over  his  papers.  There  was  a  window  gar- 
den in  the  study.  To-day,  she  could  see  the 
Senator's  nurse  watering  the  Easter  lilies. 

The  nurse  had  been  head  nurse  at  a  hos- 
pital. She  prided  herself  on  her  professional 
composure,  but  it  could  not  restrain  her 
furtive  tears  that  black  day  when,  almost 
without  warning,  hope  let  go  its  grasp  and 
they  knew  Win  must  die.  With  a  kind  of 
gratitude  the  mother  again  saw  the  nurse, 
whose  hours  of  duty  were  over,  begging  the 
doctor  to  let  her  stay  through  the  night, 
while  the  tears  rolled  unchecked  down  her 
cheeks. 

The  woful  cinematograph  of  those  last 
days  enacted  itself  again,  as  it  had  enacted 
itself  every  day,  almost  every  hour,  since 
her  boy  died.  His  face,  as  she  watched  it 
while  the  soul  drifted  away,  was  clearer  to 
her  eyes  than  the  scene  before  her.  She 
saw  it  change  as  a  ripple  changes  water ;  she 
saw  the  placid,  unrecognizing  features 
settling  into  peace ;  she  heard  them  trying 
to  rouse  him,  to  win  a  last  look  for  her. 
She  wished  that  they  would  not  vex  him. 
191 


BLANK   SIDE   OF  THE   WALL 

All  that  she  begged  then  was  that  he  should 
pass  in  peace.  But  now  her  heart  cried  out 
for  one  farewell  to  remember  instead  of  that 
unearthly  content — that  smile  after  he  was 
dead! 

Yet  it  was  her  only  comfort.  Sometimes 
she  felt  that  she  had  seen  the  end,  but  some- 
times it  was  as  if  his  soul  had  waved  a  mes- 
sage of  hope  and  meeting  to  her  in  that 
smile,  before  it  went  into  the  dark.  If  she 
could  only  know  that  he  was  somewhere — 
Win  himself,  not  a  "glorified  spirit,"  or  a 
different,  unremembering  soul,  but  Win, 
whose  baby  fingers  had  smoothed  the  pain 
out  of  her  heart;  the  little,  loving,  velvet- 
cheeked,  impetuous  boy ;  the  lad  at  school, 
not  over-fond  of  study,  but  doggedly  work- 
ing to  win  prizes  for  his  mother's  vanity; 
the  gallant  young  man  who  was  her  lover 
and  comrade  as  well  as  her  son — if  she  only 
knew  that  he  was  happy,  how  little  her  own 
desolation  would  matter !  She  looked  out  at 
the  chill  April  sunshine,  and  felt  it  flooding 
his  grave.  Where  was  he?  Was  he  any- 
where? 

Augusta  Darcy  was  what  may  be  called  a 
192 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

"supporting  member"  of  the  church.  She 
was  the  largest  contributor  to  the  rector's 
salary;  she  was  President  of  the  Guild;  she 
was  a  liberal  giver  and  a  reasonably  con- 
stant church-goer.  She  had  the  greatest 
respect  for  religious  things.  And  she  often 
wondered  whether  anything  that  she  heard 
was  true. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  that  death  had 
robbed  her ;  it  was  not  the  first  time  that  she 
had  groped  vainly  in  the  deep  places  of  her 
soul  to  find  comfort.  But,  those  times, 
when  comfort  had  come,  it  had  been  through 
the  slow  healing  of  time,  the  gradual  blurring 
of  pain  by  other  interests,  other  affections — 
never  through  any  answer  to  her  questions. 
And  out  of  her  sorrows  she  had  brought 
with  her  a  keener  sympathy  for  all  sorrow ; 
a  biting  sense  of  the  helplessness  of  love  and 
a  sick  faintness  of  the  soul  before  the 
impenetrable  future. 

This  time  she  knew  that  there  never  could 
come  to  her  interests  or  affections  vivid 
enough  to  console.  Through  a  young, 
strong,  gentle  soul  that  loved  her  she  had 
been  akin  to  youth  and  hope  and  the  splen- 
193 


BLANK   SIDE  OF   THE  WALL 

did  rush  of  growing  life.  She  had  lost  more 
than  the  darling  of  her  heart — she  had  lost 
her  interest  in  living.  Something  had 
snapped  in  her  heart.  It  is  grief  that  makes 
the  soul  grow  old.  Augusta  had  always 
been  young — not  merely  "young  for  her 
age,"  but  young  in  her  joyous  readiness  for 
every  new  experience,  her  unquenchable 
hope.  Her  own  people  had  a  fine  old  name 
and  a  meager  estate.  Augusta  had  borne 
the  discomforts  of  poverty  with  a  gay  and 
frank  courage.  When  she  had  been  menaced 
by  what  might  prove  to  be  a  mortal  disease 
she  had  not  flinched. 

"Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die;  and  I  laid 
me  down  with  a  will,"  she  quoted  to  the 
doctor  when  he  told  her  the  worst  that  was 
to  be  feared.  And  when  the  danger  passed 
she  was  cheerful  but  not  elated;  assuredly 
not  awed  and  grateful,  as  the  doctor  secretly 
thought  that  she  should  be. 

But  where  was  her  courage  now?  Out- 
wardly she  was  calm  enough — she  had  been 
calm  from  the  first.  She  had  quietly  taken  up, 
one  by  one,  the  daily  household  habits  which 
had  been  jostled  aside  by  the  unnatural  life  of 
194 


BLANK   SIDE   OF  THE  WALL 

the  sickroom.  She  was  a  woman  of  the 
world ;  a  woman  with  a  position  and  a  host 
of  friends.  She  shirked  nothing  of  the 
etiquette  of  grief;  she  acknowledged  every 
courtesy  in  her  own  hand ;  to  the  friends  and 
kindred  near  enough  to  express  their  sym- 
pathy she  responded,  thanking  them  in  the 
fewest  possible  words,  then  talking  of  some- 
thing else.  She  did  not  go  to  her  club,  but 
she  attended  an  "important  meeting"  of  the 
Guild,  and  her  comments  on  the  question  at 
issue  were  quite  in  her  old  fashion.  The 
women  smiled,  for  she  was  not  only  dis- 
tinctly to  the  point,  but  her  shrewdness  had 
a  dash  of  humor.  And  she  smiled,  too. 
Yet  she  was  thinking,  "That  would  amuse 
Win;  I  can't  tell  it  to  him."  And  she  was 
remembering,  and  she  was  saying  to  her- 
self: "This  it  ,is  to  have  a  broken  heart. 
You  care  for  nothing — not  even  your  own 
suffering.  That's  how  you  know  there  is 
no  hope.  If  you  were  suffering  so  you 
wanted  to  scream  that  would  be  a  paroxysm, 
and  paroxysms,  soul  or  body,  pass!  But 
this  is  like  the  pain  of  a  mortal  disease — not 
beyond  endurance  but  beyond  hope!" 
195 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE  WALL 

From  such  thoughts  her  fancy  slipped  back 
to  last  summer — "O  God!  only  last  sum- 
mer"— when  they  were  in  the  Adirondacks 
and  she  broke  her  arm.  The  guide  set  it, 
they  being  miles  from  a  doctor  or  an 
anaesthetic,  and  Win  and  his  two  college 
chums  stood  by,  catching  their  breath.  She 
did  not  so  much  as  shiver.  All  the  while 
she  said  to  herself,  "The  pain's  nasty,  but 
it's  outside — it  isn't  I. "  A  thrill  of  happiness 
conquered  the  red-hot  torture  of  the  twists 
as  she  heard  Tom  Cain  (the  great  half- 
back, and  revered  accordingly  by  Win,) 
whisper,  "Oh!  isn't  she  a  thoroughbred?" 
She  looked  up  to  smile,  cheering  Win. 
"It's  not  bad,  really;  he  does  it  so  skillfully. " 

She  knew  that  her  boy  was  proud  of  her. 
It  was  delicious  to  have  Win  proud  of  her  in 
a  new  way.  Afterward,  his  soul  overflowed. 
"Tom  says  he  knows,  now,  how  the  French 
marquises  looked  on  their  way  to  the 
guillotine!"  cried  he.  "They  wore  just  that 
smile.  You've  made  a  mash  of  Tom, 
mother!" 

Then  she  told  him  about  her  thought  of 
the  pain. 

196 


BLANK   SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Perhaps,"  said  Win,  thoughtfully,  "that's 
the  difference  between  mental  and  physical 
pain.  Don't  you  remember  how,  when  I 
cut  my  knee  breaking  into  the  conservatory, 
I  whistled  while  the  doctor  probed  for  the 
glass  and  was  greatly  admired  for  my  sand, 
as  I  very  well  knew — " 

"Yes,  dear;  we  both  dearly  like  to  be 
admired,  you  and  I,"  said  she.  And  their 
eyes  met.  Win's  were  dark,  with  long, 
black  lashes,  hers  were  violet,  but  the  ex- 
pression was  the  same.  They  both  laughed. 

"Dear!"  said  Win,  patting  her  hand. 
Then  he  went  on:  "And  don't  you  remem- 
ber how,  the  minute  I  discovered  that  the 
injury  would  prevent  my  going  to  the 
circus,  all  my  sand  leaked  out  and  I  bawled 
like  a  calf?  The  first  pain  had  only  hurt  my 
knee.  But  not  going  to  the  circus,  my  first 
circus,  that  loosened  the  very  foundations  of 
being!" 

The  light  words  returned  to  her.  They 
were  not  light  to  her  now.  Yes;  it  was 
true — that  foolish  pain  was  not  herself,  but 
this  ache  of  the  heart  was  a  hideous  part  of  her 
very  being.  And  by  that  token  she  knew 
197 


BLANK    SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

that  she  could  never  rid  herself  of  it.  So 
long  as  she  lived  this  cruel  partner  would 
keep  step  with  her  soul.  "But  I  wouldn't 
mind  it,"  she  whispered;  "I  wouldn't  mind 
it,  dear,  if  I  could  know  that  you  were  some- 
where and  were  happy!" 

She  did  not  know.  She  looked  at  the 
woodbine  masking  the  drab  front  of  the 
Harmon  house.  The  tulips  and  lilies  of 
the  window  garden  swayed,  and  she  remem- 
bered that  behind  their  gay  pomp  a  man 
lay,  dying  by  inches. 

"Poor  Miss  Harmon,"  she  sighed,  "she 
will  have  to  wonder  about  it,  too. ' '  She  half 
smiled  as  she  sighed  in  the  kind  of  compassion 
not  unmixed  with  amusement  which  some 
people  always  evoke.  She  was  thinking  of 
Miss  Harmon  at  the  club.  Ten  years  ago  she 
had  become  a  member  of  Augusta's  literary 
club.  She  was  a  neutral-tinted  woman  of 
small  stature,  modest  demeanor  and  an 
unobtrusive  and  self-respecting  dowdiness  of 
garb.  Viewing  her,  one  saw  at  a  glance 
that  she  bought  the  best  of  materials  and 
was  true  to  the  dressmaker  of  her  youth. 
The  other  salient  features  of  her  presence 
198 


BLANK  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

were  a  Roman  nose,  a  nearsighted  frown 
and  a  trick  of  blushing,  which  imparted  to 
her  elderly  face  a  spectral  girlhood.  During 
all  the  ten  years  she  never  had  made  a 
speech,  nor  did  she  ever  fail  to  second  Mrs. 
Darcy's  resolutions. 

The  papers  which  she  read  before  the  club 
were  always  described  by  the  local  journals 
as  "containing  an  immense  amount  of  study 
and  thought. ' '  She  read  them  in  a  hurried, 
agitated  voice  and  looked  ready  to  faint 
when  she  sat  down.  Once  she  had  a  severe 
cold,  and  Augusta,  out  of  mere  careless 
good  nature,  offered  to  read  her  paper. 
Augusta's  voice  (the  light,  flexible  American 
voice,  which  can  be  as  expressive  as  gray 
eyes)  was  mellowed  by  the  Western  climate, 
and  had  been  carefully  cultivated  by  good 
masters.  She  had,  moreover,  the  dramatic 
gift  and  the  magnetism  of  every  good 
speaker.  She  read  as  if  Miss  Harmon's 
thoughts  were  her  own,  and  the  applause 
was  great.  Miss  Harmon  wiped  her  eyes. 
Every  member  present  congratulated  her 
later,  and  many  of  them  congratulated  the 
Senator. 

199 


BLANK   SIDE  OF   THE   WALL 

"It  was  all  Mrs.  Darcy,"  said  Miss 
Harmon. 

It  was  from  this  time  that  the  impression 
began  to  drift  about  the  club  that  Miss 
Harmon  had  an  extraordinary  admiration 
for  Mrs.  Darcy.  It  was  so  diffident,  how- 
ever, that  Augusta,  who  was  usually  ready 
enough  to  detect  her  followers,  did  not 
notice  it  until  the  glee  club  of  Win's  college 
sang  in  the  town,  and  the  Harmons  took 
ten  seats  at  the  concert. 

She  was  gracious  to  this  humble  admirer 
because  it  was  her  nature  to  be  gracious,  and 
she  was  grateful  because  the  admirer  never 
seemed  to  expect  any  intimacy. 

During  Win's  sickness,  flowers  came  from 
the  Harmons  almost  daily,  and  daily  the 
Harmons'  one  maid  (they  were  not  rich) 
went  around  to  the  kitchen  door  to  inquire. 

Miss  Harmon  explained  to  her  friends: 
"I  hate  to  send  Katy,  but  I  don't  want  to 
ring  the  bell  myself  and  I  don't  feel  free  to 
run  around  back,  so  I  just  take  the  dishes 
while  Katy  goes. ' ' 

Augusta  told  Win,  and  he  laughed.  "She's 
aright  good  sort,"  said  he,  "and  I  don't 

200 


BLANK   SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

like  her  any  the  less  that  she  thinks  the  sun 
rises  and  sets  in  you,  mother.  It  is  good  of 
her  to  think  of  me  when  she's  in  such 
trouble  herself.  You  know  I  saw  the 
Senator  at  the  reception  they  gave  him. 
He  knew  about  it  then,  and  I'd  heard.  It 
made  me  feel  queer  to  see  him  and  hear 
him.  He  told  me  a  funny  story,  and  I  was 
thinking  all  the  time  how  he  knew  he  must 
give  it  up  just  as  he  had  got  his  hand  on  it. 
But  he's  a  real  old  sport.  He  never  made 
a  sign.  I  daresay  it's  worse  for  her,  if  any- 
thing, than  for  him,  for  she's  always  been 
with  him.  They  pinched  and  scraped 
together  and  she  has  been  his  private  secre- 
tary to  save  money.  Now,  just  as  he  is 
famous  and  successful  he  has  to  go.  Mother, 
there  are  some  awfully  cruel  things  in 
life." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Darcy.  He  was  so 
much  better  that  they  thought  him  out  of 
danger,  and  he  was  eager  to  talk  and  to 
listen  to  her. 

He  went  on:  "Do  you  ever  wonder  what 
becomes  of  us  when  we  die?" 

Mrs.    Darcy    shivered.      She    who    was 


BLANK   SIDE  OF  THE   WALL 

usually  so  ready,  had  not  a  word  at  her 
command.  "Yes,"  she  said  somberly,  "but 
I  don't  know." 

"If  we  are  immortal  I  suppose  this  one 
little  patch  of  life  cuts  a  very  small  figure, 
and  our  troubles  here  we  think  of  just  as  a 
man  remembers  how  desperate  he  was  as  a 
child  over  some  fool  little  thing.  Don't 
you  know  how  I  cried  over  the  circus  and 
wished  I  was  dead  because  I  had  so  many 
enemies?  The  doctor  was  the  chief,  and 
then  poor  grandma;  but  I  excepted  you 
because  I  saw  you  were  almost  as  mournful 
as  I.  Now  maybe  it  will  be  that  way  in 
some  other  existence.  All  I  remember  now 
is  how  nice  you  were  to  me,  and  that 
always  will  be  present,  but  all  the  bad 
part  is  a  joke.  Maybe  our  bad  quarters  of 
an  hour  will  be  like  that — all  the  pain  gone, 
but  all  the — the  love" — he  said  the  word 
with  a  boy's  shyness  at  any  deep  feeling — 
"left.  I  wonder  how  Harmon  feels  about 
it  all.  It's  queer,  but  I  wish  I  could  see 
him!" 

Augusta  recalled  the  talk  to-day.  She 
had  never  cared  for  Senator  Harmon,  a 

202 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

rough-hewn  old  Spartan,  who  was  called  "a 
man  of  the  plain  people,"  or  a  demagogue, 
according  to  the  critic's  political  point  of 
view.  She  conceded  his  integrity  so  far  as 
money  was  concerned,  and  no  doubt  he  was 
an  able  man,  but  his  black  frock  coat  vexed 
her  soul.  The  skirts  hitched  in  the  back 
and  sagged  in  front;  never  was  it  but- 
toned. His  manners  were  like  his  coat,  too 
individual  to  be  pleasing.  To  women  he 
paid  no  attention  whatever,  which  to  a 
woman  is  more  offensive  than  rudeness  itself. 
Once,  he  took  Augusta  out  to  dinner  and 
talked  all  through,  the  dinner  to  the  man 
opposite.  Augusta  was  not  accustomed  to 
have  men  take  her  out  to  dinner  and  talk  to 
any  one  else.  The  sensation  was  new,  but 
not  agreeable.  The  single  remark  that  he 
addressed  to  her  was:  "I  see  you  ladies  are 
bound  to  get  your  rights ;  you  've  another 
bill  ready  for  the  Legislature."  To  which 
Augusta  had  responded  dryly:  "Yes,  I 
signed  the  petition  against  it. ' '  She  did  not 
notice  the  twinkle  in  his  eye,  because  she 
was  disdainfully  eating  her  fish.  Later,  Win 
repeated  to  her  the  Senator's  private  counsel 
203 


BLANK   SIDE   OF  THE   WALL 

to  the  distracted  legislators,  who  did  not 
want  to  pass  the  bill  nor  to  offend  its  pro- 
moters. "Well,  boys,"  said  he,  "I  can  only 
recommend  to  you  the  advice  of  old  Uncle 
Chet  Tarbox,  of  Kansas,  in  the  same  case. 
'That's  easy,'  says  he.  'talk  fur  it  and  vote 
agin  it!'  " 

"And  he  calls  that  principle?"  Augusta 
sneered. 

"No,  dear,  I  think  he  calls  it  politics,"  said 
Win,  "but  he  is  a  man  of  principles." 

And  now,  just  as  the  stakes  were  highest 
and  he  stood  in  to  win,  the  poor  fellow  must 
drop  out  of  the  game.  Augusta's  heart 
softened  to  him.  "And  he  knows  it,"  she 
thought;  "he  has  to  lie  there  and  dread  the 
passage.  At  least  Win  was  spared  that.  And 
that  poor  woman  will  have  to  help  him.  She 
doesn't  strike  me  as  a  bit  of  a  tower;  poor, 
weak,  conscientious  thing !  I  suppose  she  is 
very  religious ;  that  kind  of  woman  is  likely 
to  be.  Well,  I  hope  her  religion  will  be  a 
help  to  her,"  she  sighed. 

She  drifted  into  a  dreary  reverie.  The 
maid  announced  Miss  Harmon  twice  before 
she  heard.  "It's  Miss  Harmon,  ma'am.  She 
204 


BLANK   SIDE   OF  THE  WALL 

said  she  knew  it  wasn  't  your  day ;  but  she'd 
be  very  much  obliged  if  you  would  see 
her." 

Augusta  hesitated.  She  would  have 
excused  herself  had  she  known  any  gra- 
cious way.  Not  knowing  any,  she  bade 
the  visitor  be  shown  up.  And  she  braced 
herself  for  the  ordeal  of  sympathy. 

The  sunlight  made  a  shining  bar  across 
the  floor,  which  rose  to  the  ceiling,  in  a  wall 
of  radiant  mist  filled  with  dancing,  golden 
motes.  She  stood  behind  it,  a  slight  and 
somber  figure,  with  listless  eyes.  Through 
the  mist  the  room  was  transfigured.  The 
dull  shine  of  the  mahogany,  the  soft  dazzle 
of  the  silver  on  her  dressing-table,  the  roses 
of  the  wall-paper,  the  etching  on  the  walls, 
the  white  curtains  at  the  windows  where  the 
afternoon  light  had  painted  exquisite  trans- 
parent shadows  of  violet;  all  these  familiar 
things  looked  different  and  unreal.  Unreal, 
also,  looked  the  commonplace  woman  who 
advanced  to  her,  her  face  illumined  by  that 
mystical  glow.  Augusta  had  a  sudden  im- 
pression of  a  new  quality  in  it ;  it  was  as  if, 
for  the  first  time,  she  saw  the  real  woman, 
205 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

not  the  exterior.  And  she  remembered 
quickly  their  kinship  in  pain. 

"I'm  glad  you  came,"  she  said,  im- 
pulsively; "thank you  for  coming." 

Miss  Harmon  stepped  past  the  glow ;  she 
was  her  own,  limp,  neat,  uninteresting  self 
again.  She  seated  herself  in  the,  manner 
taught  her  by  the  Delsarte  teacher  who  had 
given  the  club  lessons,  and  clasped  her 
hands  before  her;  and  it  was  a  second 
before  Augusta  realized  that  her  silence 
came  from  the  effort  to  master  her  emotion, 
and  that  the  eyes  behind  her  glasses  were 
full  of  tears. 

"I  hope  you  will  excuse  me  coming  to- 
day," she  began — evidently  it  was  a  little, 
carefully  studied  speech  that  she  was  recit- 
ing— "I  appreciate  how  occupied  you  must 
be;  I  would  not  have  intruded  merely  to 
express  my — my  deep  sympathy.  But  my 
brother  wished  me  to  come.  We  were 
always  interested  in  Mr.  Winthrop  Darcy. 
Brother  was  grateful  to  him,  in  the  first 
place,  that  night  he  met  me — the  concert 
night  when  I  was  with  a  lady  friend  and  we 
missed  the  street  cars.  I  was  very  silly — 
206 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

frightened ;  and  he  was  so  kind ;  he  insisted 
on  walking  home  with  us,  leaving  his  young 
friends.  And  I  never  was  at  any  public 
entertainment  that  he  didn't  bow  to  me  in 
the  pleasantest  manner.  Brother  appreci- 
ated it.  And  he  appreciated  your  great 
kindness^  too " 

"My  dear,  I  never  was  kind,"  began 
Augusta.  There  had  seemed  to  be  a  thin 
crust  of  ice  over  her  sympathies,  which  used 
to  run  so  quickly  into  any  channel  of  need ; 
but  she  thought  to  herself,  "I  always  knew 
that  shy  woman  was  lonesome.  Why  didn't 
I  be  decent  to  her  when  I  could feel!" 

"And  Brother  always  thought  so  much  of 
you,"  continued  Miss  Harmon,  innocently. 
For  her  the  approbation  of  Roger  Harmon 
was  a  crown  to  be  coveted  by  the  kings  of 
earth.  "Ever  since  one  time  that  he  took 
you  out  to  dinner.  He  so  liked  your  man- 
ners. And  we  used  to  like  so  much  to  watch 
Mr.  Winthrop  with  you.  We'd  so  often 
notice  him  at  night  before  you  pulled  the 
shade  down,  his  manner  to  you — I  didn't 
mean  to  pain  you.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
sorry — I  won't  detain  you,  but  it  was  so  you 
207 


BLANK  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

would  know  why" — she  had  forgotten  her 
studied  phrases,  her  color  flickered  on 
her  cheeks  like  a  lamp-flame  in  the  wind, 
she  trembled — "so  you  would  know  why 
Brother  wanted  it.  He  thought  it  might 
comfort  you ;  and  whatever  he  asked  me  to 
do,  I  couldn't  refuse. ' ' 

"Surely  not,"  said  Augusta,  gently,  and 
she  laid  her  hand  on  the  trembling  fingers 
lifted  a  moment,  "but  don't  distress  your- 
self, wait " 

"Oh,  you  are  so  good,"  sobbed  Miss  Har- 
mon. "Oh,  I  can't  wait,  I  have  got  to  tell  it 
quick  for  fear  I'll  break  down.  Don't  be 
kind  to  me  or  I'll  break  down!  I  haven't 
broken  down  once.  Nor  cried.  I  don't 
dare  to.  This  is  what  Brother  asked  me  to 
tell  you.  'She's  a  woman  of  sense,'  said 
he,  'and  she's  on  the  blank  side  of  the  wall. 
She  doesn't  want  to  have  folks  talk  to  her 
when  she  knows  they  know  as  little  as  she 
does.  I  know  how  she  feels.  She  can't 
talk.  Why,  it's  not  to  be  talked.  It's 
unthinkable.  You  try  to  imagine  where 
you'll  be  when  you  quit.  You  can't  do  it. 
You  can't  think  yourself  stopped — nothing! 
208 


BLANK   SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

You  go  to  her,  Sis,'  he  said,  'and  you've  a 
good  memory,  you  give  her  exactly  my 
words.  She's  a  woman  of  sense;  she  won't 
talk  any  nonsense  about  maybe  I'll  get  well. 
She  knows  I'm  man  enough  to  take  my 
medicine  without  lies.  Being  a  woman, 
what  she  wants  most  is  to  know  that  boy  of 
hers  is  happy ;  being  a  woman,  as  much  as 
she  wants  that,  even  more,  maybe,  she 
wants  to  do  something  for  him.  As  long  as 
you  women  can  do  something  for  those  you 
love,  you'll  walk  over  red-hot  coals  and  say 
it  doesn't  hurt.  Well,  I'll  give  her  a  chance 
to  do  something  for  him.  I  don't  believe  my 
soul  is  going  to  be  done  for  entirely  just 
because  it  has  lost  its  job,  here !  I'm  going 
on.  You  tell  her  I'll  hunt  her  boy  up.  I'll 
find  him.  The  will's  going  to  count  there  as 
much  as  it  counts  here.  You  tell  her  I'll 
give  him  any  message  she  wants  to  send. 
You  tell  her  in  just  those  words. '  ' 

Miss  Harmon  had  spoken  in  a  voice  as  low 
and  monotonous  as  a  deaf  man's.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  and  vacant.  The  color  had  con- 
centrated in  a  single  spot  on  her  cheeks. 
One  could  see  that  she  suffered  frightfully, 
209 


BLANK   SIDE   OF  THE   WALL 

and  did  not  know  that  she  was  in  pain,  so 
intent  was  she  to  obey.  But  at  first  Augusta 
hardly  noticed  her ;  the  message  was  like  a 
lightning  bolt  on  a  strange  landscape  in  the 
night. 

4 'He's  right,  he's  right,"  she  breathed,  "if 
he  only  can!" 

"Brother  always  does  what  he  says  he 
will,"  said  Miss  Harmon. 

"And  he  is  sure  he  will  go  on?  Oh,  how 
cruel  I  am  to  say  that  to  you!  You  poor 
child!" 

Impulsively  she  came  to  the  other  woman 
and  put  her  arms  about  her.  Miss  Har- 
mon's arms  hung  limply,  but  Augusta 
understood  the  strained  whisper,  "Don't  be 
kind  to  me!" 

"I  won't.  I  know.  And  are  you  on  the 
blank  side  of  the  wall,  too?  I  thought  that 
you  were  so  religious. ' ' 

"I  used  to  hope  I  had  faith,  but  everything 
is  so  dim  now,"  Miss  Harmon  said,  wearily. 
"My  thoughts  wander  even  when  I  try  to 
pray.  I'm  no  help  to  him,  but" — a  strange 
light  dawned  in  her  haggard  face— "he 
doesn't  need  my  help;  he's  finding  it  out 


BLANK    SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

for  himself.  At  first  he  said,  'It's  tough. 
But  we'll  go  through  it,  together,  Sis. 
We've  gone  through  ever)rthing  together; 
we'll  go  through  this. '  But  it  has  been  he 
that  helped  me.  He's  thought  of  me  all 
along.  Doctor  said  that  the  first  thing  he 
said  when  he  knew  the  truth  was:  'Well,  I 
always  was  glad  I  carried  a  big  life  insur- 
ance. Sis  will  be  all  right. '  And  only  this 
morning,  after  I  promised  to  come  here,  he 
said:  'Sis,  when  you  come  where  I  am  you 
remember  I  said,  "I  mind  it  less  every 
day."  '  I  must  be  getting  back,  now.  I 
can't  bear  to  be  away.  When  I'm  with  him, 
I'm  quite  calm,  indeed  I  am,  for  I  can  see; 
but  when  I'm  away  I  think  of  a  thousand 
things.  Will  you  tell  him  the  message?" 

Augusta  drew  a  long  breath.  "Thank 
him,  thank  him  from  my  heart.  Tell  him 
we  will  try  to  comfort  each  other.  I  can 
never  forget  his  thought  of  me.  And  tell 
him  to  tell  my  boy  that  he  blessed  me  all 
his  life  and  that  I  know  we  shall  be  happy 
again." 

Then,  as  Miss  Harmon  rose  their  eyes 
met.  They  went  down  the  stairs  together, 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

Augusta  talking  of  other  things — what 
neither  of  them  ever  knew.  Augusta  went 
up-stairs.  When  she  returned,  she  stood  for 
a  moment  before  her  boy's  picture,  looking 
steadily  at  the  beautiful  young  face.  "I 
believe  I  lied,"  she  murmured,  "just  as  I 
would  have  lied  when  you  were  dying  if  it 
would  have  helped  you.  'The  blank  side  of 
the  wall?'  Yes.  He  believed  no  more  than 
I,  and  yet  he  is  thinking  it  out,  he  thinks  he 
will  live. ' ' 

Somehow  the  manner  in  which  the  dying 
man  was  planning  his  future  as  he  would 
plan  a  journey,  obscurely  heartened  her.  It 
gave  the  homely  comfort  of  a  firelight  shin- 
ing from  some  cottage  on  a  wanderer.  The 
world  where  messages  could  be  given  and 
taken  was  not  so  aloof  as  it  had  seemed. 
"He  can't  know,"  she  muttered;  but  she 
added,  "He  is  on  the  very  verge,  surely  he 
ought  to  see  more  clearly  than  we!"  And, 
all  at  once,  she  found  herself  at  the  writing- 
desk  writing  to  Miss  Harmon.  Afterward 
she  was  glad  that  she  wrote  those  few  words 
of  gratitude,  and  asked  if  she  might  see  the 
Senator.  The  reply  came  back  immediately. 


BLANK   SIDE   OF  THE  WALL 

' '  My  brother  will  be  very  glad  if  you  will 
come  to-morrow.  He  is  feeling  more  com- 
fortable, thank  you.  He  told  me  to  tell  you 
to  come  in  the  morning,  please. ' ' 

Augusta  was  consumed  with  the  miserable 
restlessness  of  grief  all  the  evening.  It  was 
some  diversion  to  drive  to  a  florist.  The 
windows  were  gorgeous  with  masses  of  lilies 
and  golden  jonquils.  She  remembered, 
when  she  saw  them,  that  to-morrow  was 
Easter.  While  she  waited  her  turn  at  the 
counter  she  listened  idly,  yet  with  deepening 
interest,  to  a  clerk  explaining  to  a  customer 
about  the  lilies.  "You  see,"  said  he,  "it's 
the  same  plant,  just  as  much  as  a  rose-tree 
is,  if  it  does  die  down  and  there  be  nothing 
but  a  bulb  left.  It  sprouts  and  the  flower 
grows  again. ' ' 

Was  there,  she  pondered,  as  her  carriage 
rolled  past  the  lights,  was  there  any  analogy 
between  the  lily  and  human  life?  Could 
there  be,  she  wondered,  some  common 
meeting  ground  for  all  the  souls  that  sought, 
no  matter  through  what  devious  and  varying 
paths,  to  find  the  eternal  love?  Was  there  a 
kinship  among  worshipers  running  deeper 
213 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

than  any  creed?  How  far  was  Win  right 
and  the  sorrows  that  rend  the  heart,  only  the 
poignant  but  fleeting  troubles  of  a  child  to 
be  remembered  with  a  smile? 

She  slept  ill  that  night,  but  it  would  have 
been  a  new  thing  for  her  to  sleep  otherwise. 
At  the  same  time,  amid  her  distempered 
musings,  she  had  the  sensation  of  a  lift 
to  her  thoughts.  There  was  something 
different  to  think  about  instead  of  that  old 
futile  treadmill  of  misery. 

The  sunlight  awoke  her,  and  while  she 
dressed  she  could  hear  the  singing  of  birds. 
There  was  the  brilliant  languor  of  spring  in 
the  air,  "the  dear  unrest,"  the  clean 
splendor  in  the  tints  of  earth  and  sky,  the 
ineffable  feeling  of  hope  and  resurrection 
that  comes  with  every  spring.  She  looked 
forward,  actually  she  looked  forward  to  her 
interview  with  Harmon.  She  leaned  on  the 
hope  that  was  in  her  heart,  and  the  beautiful 
morning  was  like  an  omen. 

When  she  heard  the  chimes  she  perceived 

that  she  had  slept  later  than  usual.     Their 

deep,  keen  resonance  struck  a  silent  chord 

in  her  heart.     They  were  the  chimes  of  her 

214 


BLANK   SIDE   OF  THE   WALL 

own  church,  and  they  were  playing  a  hymn 
that  Win  loved  to  hear  her  sine.  It  was  not 
a  distinctively  Easter  hymn,  and  she  did  not 
know  that  because  of  her  and  because  of 
Win,  whom  he  had  loved,  the  rector  had 
chosen  it.  Whether  Win  loved  it  for  the 
music  or  the  words  she  did  not  know,  but 
she  said  the  words  over  to  herself  with  a 
thrill,  wherein  blended  awe  and  remem- 
brance and  an  unreasoning,  timid  hope. 

Thou  hidden  love  of  God  whose  height, 
Whose  depth  unmeasured  no  man  knows, 

I  see  from  far  thy  beauteous  light, 
Inly  I  sigh  for  thy  repose. 

My  heart  is  pained,  nor  can  it  be 

At  rest,  till  I  find  rest  in  thee! 

As  she  said  them  she  thought  of  Harmon. 
Had  he,  who  seemed  a  hard  man,  even 
callous,  had  he  perchance  any  moments 
when  his  soul  leaned  wistfully  towards  an 
unknown  power  that  did  not  willingly  afflict 
nor  grieve  the  children  of  men,  when  it  was 
comfort  to  him  that  he  need  not  resent  his 
fate?  She  was  impatient  to  see  him,  to  win 
from  him  any  light  that  he  might  hold.  All 
through  her  anguish  she  had  neither  prayed 
215 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

nor  felt  any  inclination  to  pray.  What 
came  to  her  had  assumed  the  air  of  the 
inevitable.  She  had  so  little  confidence  in 
any  power  of  the  spirit  that  she  had  had  no 
thought  to  appeal  to  it.  But  while  she 
walked  over  the  elastic  turf  where  the  grass 
was  springing,  her  eyes  on  the  lilies  that 
had  died  and  bloomed  again,  she  felt  an 
impulse  of  her  childhood  before  she  tasted 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge. 

"Oh,  if  it  were  any  good  to  pray!  If 
there  were  anybody!"  she  cried  within.  "I 
want  to  pray!" 

By  this  time,  being  at  the  Harmons'  gate, 
she  raised  her  eyes,  and  the  blood  curdled  in  a 
flash  about  her  heart,  for  on  the  door-knob 
hung  a  myrtle  wreath,  and  the  door  stood 
open. 

' '  I  dared  to  hope ;  I  was  a  fool, ' '  she  said, 
with  inexpressible  bitterness.  She  was 
minded  to  turn  and  go  back  to  the  loneliness 
which  was  not  to  be  lifted.  But  she  re- 
membered the  dead  man's  sister.  At  least, 
in  return  for  what  they  had  meant  to  do,  she 
would  offer  her  ineffectual  offices  of  kind- 
ness. 

216 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE  WALL 

The  old  servant,  with  eyes  swollen  from 
weeping,  met  her  at  the  door. 

"I'm  on  the  look-out  for  you,  ma'am.  I 
knew  you'd  come,"  she  cried,  "and  poor 
Miss  Lizzie,  she  left  word  she  wanted  to  see 
you.  Will  you  come  up?" 

"Wasn't  it  very  sudden?"  Augusta  asked, 
feeling  her  nerves  shrinking  from  the  inter- 
view before  her. 

"Oh,  very,  ma'am;  the  heart  failed,  all  of 
a  minute,  you  might  say.  But  oh,  he 
didn't  suffer;  went  off  so  peaceful.  And 
she's  been  dreading  him  suffering  at  the 
end.  And  he  had  his  senses.  She  was 
'fraid  at  the  end  he'd  be  delirious.  It's  a 
great  loss  to  the  country,  but  no  one  knows 
what  we  lose  but  us. ' ' 

She  panted  up  the  stairs  while  her  grief 
thus  found  tongue.  Augusta  knew  whose 
rooms  they  were  passing  and  who  lay  behind 
that  closed  door.  At  the  rustle  of  their 
passage,  the  door  opened  and  Miss  Harmon 
came  into  the  hall. 

Augusta  had  not  thought  how  she  should 
greet  her,  but  at  the  sight  of  her  face  she 
took  her  into  her  arms  without  a  word. 
217 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

In  a  second,  however,  she  saw  that  Miss 
Harmon  was  quite  composed.  "Will  you 
come  with  me?"  she  said;  she  had  no  hesita- 
tion, no  timidity  now.  "I  have  a  message 
for  you  from  him.  You  do  not  mind?" 

"I  came  to  see  him,"  said  Augusta;  "I 
didn't  know."  She  followed  Miss  Harmon 
into  the  room.  Quietly  she  passed  after  her 
to  her  brother's  side.  Alive  she  had  thought 
Roger  Harmon  ugly,  almost  coarse  of 
aspect.  The  mask  before  her  wore  the 
mystical  refinement  of  death.  She  noted  it, 
but  she  noted  more — the  peace  on  the  lined 
and  rugged  features  of  this  elderly  man  of 
affairs  was  of  the  same  quality  and  form  as 
the  peace  on  the  beautiful  young  face  of  her 
son. 

"Do  they  all  smile  like  that  when  they  are 
dead?"  she  thought. 

Miss  Harmon  softly  pushed  a  straying  lock 
of  the  gray  hair  into  place.  She  spoke — 
without  emotion,  her  voice  quite  steady. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  about  him.    I  told  him 

what  you  said.     He  seemed  so  much  better. 

It  pleased  him.     'You  tell  her  I'll  engage 

to    do    it,'    he    said.      He    was    glad    you 

218 


BLANK   SIDE  OP  THE  WALL 

wanted  to  see  him.  'She  thinks  I  know 
something,'  he  said;  'sometimes  I  think  I 
do  myself.  I  know  how  little  all  this  fret 
and  sweat  of  ours  is  worth.  And  if  this 
were  the  end  of  it,  Lord,  what  a  bungle  the 
world  would  be !  There  must  be  something 
under  it  all.  Now,  there  is  nothing  in  this 
whole  world  that  is  destroyed;  it  only 
changes.  Why  should  we  be  destroyed? 
Don't  you  worry,  Sis;  there  is  something 
a  good  deal  bigger  than  the  Presbyterian 
church,  or  any  other  church ;  and  men 
have  struggled  to  find  it  in  all  ages.  And 
they  do  find  it,  when  they  die.  Don't  you 
worry,  we'll  talk  this  all  over  somewhere 
else.  It's  all  right.' 

"I  longed  so  to  talk  with  him,  but  I  was 
afraid  it  might  be  bad  for  him ;  so  I  didn't. 
There  was  no  reason  to  think  he  might  not 
live  weeks.  But  in  the  night  the  nurse 
called  me.  It  came  when  he  was  asleep. 
He  was  unconscious.  He — he  never  knew 
me  after  he  kissed  me  good  night  that  night. 
But — this  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you — just 
before  he  died  he  opened  his  eyes,  with  such 
a  bright,  pleasant  expression  in  them,  as 
219 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

if  he  saw  something,  and  he  said:  'Well, 
Winthrop!  Yes,  I'll  tell  her.'  That  was 
all;  he  turned  his  head  and  sighed  very 
softly  and  that  was  all." 

Augusta  did  not  move,  did  not  speak; 
her  only  motion  was  to  clasp  more  tightly 
the  hand  that  trembled  in  her  own. 

Peace  stole  into  her  heart.  Had  this  dying 
man  seen  her  boy?  It  might  be.  She  did 
not  know ;  but  an  unearthly  comfort  born  of 
semething  deeper  than  reason,  tranquillized 
her  pain;  afar  off  she  perceived  the  possi- 
bility of  faith  and  hope.  And  it  had  come 
to  her  from  this  man  whom  she  held  so 
lightly!  Yet  in  the  repentance  that  swept 
over  her  there  was  no  abasement ;  she  felt 
that  were  he  to  know  he  would  understand, 
and  if  a  human  soul  would  know  and  freely 
forgive  should  infinite  comprehension  be 
less  kind?  Unconsciously  she  sank  on  her 
knees,  but  the  prayer  on  her  lips  was  not  in 
the  majestic  words  that  her  childhood  had 
learned.  Hardly  knowing  that  she  prayed, 
there  flowed  from  her  soul  the  petition  of 
the  old  Buddhist:  "Forgive  me,  O  Lord, 
as  the  friend  forgives  the  friend,  as  the 


BLANK   SIDE   OF   THE   WALL 

father  pardons  his  son,  the  lover  his 
beloved ! ' ' 

She  arose,  she  bent  reverently  over  the 
dead  man,  she  kissed  his  hand.  "My 
friend,"  she  promised,  "I  will  believe  you. 
I  am  grateful. ' ' 

Then  she  turned  to  Miss  Harmon.  "We 
are  both  alone,"  she  said;  "let  us  help  each 
other." 

At  this  moment  the  chimes  began  to  ring; 
through  the  window  she  could  see  the 
eternal  miracle  of  spring.  The  lilies 
burned  in  the  sunlight,  like  white  flame.  A 
new  meaning  of  Easter  stole  into  her  con- 
sciousness, even  as  light  steals  or  the 
scents  and  sounds  and  mysterious  stir  of 
springtime,  while  the  hymn  sang  itself  in 
her  heart. 

I  see  from  far  thy  beauteous  light, 

Inly  I  sigh  for  thy  repose. 
My  heart  is  pained,  nor  can  it  be 
At  rest  till  I  find  rest  in  thee. 


PRIWTKD    BY    STROMBERQ,    ALLEN    &    CO 

FOR 

HERBERT    S.   STONE   &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 

CHICAGO 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
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